


Found Myself; I'm Somebody Else

by euhemeria



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Begrudging Allies to Friends to Lovers, F/F, Family Bonding, Family Drama, Mother-Daughter Relationship, Multiverse, Pre-Canon, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-08
Updated: 2019-08-10
Packaged: 2020-04-12 12:22:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 99,930
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19131964
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/euhemeria/pseuds/euhemeria
Summary: A flash of light, or, not really a flash, but a view into another room, where the lights are on, and something, someone is tumbling out of the sky, and into the room.Instantly, Fareeha’s hand is on the panic button, and she has begun to press it down when she sees the face of the intruder and freezes.It is familiar, and so, too, is the voice in the moment they make eye contact.“Ohshit,” says the intruder, at the same time Fareeha is again remembering to press the panic button, and there is a sudden stinging feeling on Fareeha’s forehead and——And that is all.She cannot move, cannot breathe, is falling to the ground unable to keep open her eyes, and her thoughts ought to be on what she was shot with, if she has any chance of survival at all, but instead all she can think of is that voice, that face, those eyes.Ummi?





	1. turned my gaze to the ceiling/thanked a god i dont believe in

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Radycat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Radycat/gifts).



> i started writing this for erin's bday, because we had a convo in december about this fic/plot. she had a pretty big role in the early stages of developing the concept for this au, too, although all the plot specifics were of course up to me. i couldnt have done this without her input!! <3
> 
> im keeping the specifics of what the au is vague on here bc the pov character (fareeha) doesnt know anything is unusual at first, so if u read on here u can find out naturally along w the plot. if u wanna be spoiled just let me know on twitter alksdjfalskdfja just know that things that seem like i dont know the plot (e.g. ana having two eyes post death, and some other things) are just u know, part of the au

Overwatch is gone.  It is official, as of four days ago, when live broadcasts the world over switched suddenly from whatever it was they were playing, football games, dramas, and news alike interrupted for a simultaneous announcement, Director Petras standing before a blue wall, United Nations insignia behind him, solemnly reading from a teleprompter as he announced the passage of the PETRAS Act, immediately halting, defunding, and decommissioning all Overwatch activity, and making any such organizing illegal from that moment onward.  It seems fitting to Fareeha, that he is the one who made the announcement, grey face and grey hair matching the way all color seemed to drain from her world, in the moment she said it, save for the blue of the background, her eyes unable to focus on anything else.

Overwatch blue. 

Her mother’s blue.

The announcement replays on a loop in the days afterwards, and each time Fareeha feels like she is listening to it from underwater, words distant and distorted by the time they hit her ears.  The aching clarity of the first announcement is gone, the way in which her whole world narrowed to that instant, eyes locked on the screen in Helix’s rec room.

Overwatch is also gone, and every trace of her mother with it.

Around Fareeha is a buzz of activity, everywhere she goes, people talking, talking, talking as if they have nothing else to do.  _What will we do now?_ some of them ask, and _Thank Allah,_ others say, and still more whisper _It was long overdue.  What did they ever do to help us, anyway?  Look at the mess they left us with, when they shut the Anubis Project down._ For the most part, Fareeha tries not to listen, tries to go about her day as best she is able, tries to let the whispers wash over her and to ignore the way every room seems to quiet when she steps into it, and eyes catch on the still healing tattoo on her cheek.

She squares her shoulders, tilts her chin, the same way her mother would do when the two of them argued, again, making herself look bigger and more imposing and less _hurt._

But it does hurt.  It hurts so very, very badly.

Not the whispers, not the stares, not even the knowledge that her dream is gone forever, now, and everyone who knows her knows that—those things, she could live with, those things she could bear, if only she had her mother back.

For that is what hurts, more than anything.

Overwatch is gone, and everything Ana lived for, everything they fought over, everything her mother _died_ for, gone with it.

What is left?

Only this, the feeling of sand in her mouth when Fareeha thinks of her mother’s disapproval, only the itch under her skin where her tattoo is healing, and the knowledge that if she scratches, she will only hurt herself, only the feeling of the wind being knocked out of her, a punch to the gut, when she realizes that everything she and her mother fought over, everything they threw away the last years of Ana’s life for, is gone.

It never mattered, any of it, because Overwatch is gone.

Fareeha spent the last four years of her mother’s life not speaking to her, and the two before that arguing with her, and for what?

For nothing. 

For a job with Helix Security, guarding the shell of what once was the Anubis AI, before her mother destroyed it, saving the world but leaving the local economy in ruins.

For a people who do not care for her promise of protection, want nothing to do with Overwatch, or the likes of her, who hate what Overwatch did to their country.

For the reminder, daily, that her mother is gone, and all the things she wants to say to her, _I love you_ and _I’m sorry_ and _I wish you had trusted me_ , will never be heard.

None of this is to say that Fareeha regrets the decisions that led her here, and that is perhaps the hardest part.  Even knowing what was to come, Fareeha thinks she would still make many of the same decisions, would still enlist, would still end up with Helix, even if perhaps she would choose her words more carefully, when arguing with her mother, even if she would call, on her mother’s birthday, rather than letting the last three pass unremarked upon.

After all, it is because Fareeha loves her mother that she has come to be where she is now, even if she never loved her mother in the ways Ana wanted.

What her mother wanted was love in the form of obedience—not absolute, but on important subjects, a sign that Fareeha trusted her judgement, believed that Ana knew and would do what was best for her—the same kind of love that Ana grew up with.  That, Fareeha could not offer her, would not, for the love she felt for her mother was a deeper sort, the kind that grew out of loving Ana for who she _was_ , not simply because she was her mother, and therefore coming to love what it was Ana did, to believe in the same things she did, to see the importance and the beauty of her work, her sacrifices.

Out of that love, that admiration, grew the dedication Fareeha feels now to protecting the innocent.  Her mother was right not about the idea of Fareeha enlisting, but in believing in helping others, no matter the cost.  Even when the world turned their back on Overwatch, Ana never did, always believed that what she was doing was the right thing, and that it did not matter whether or not people wanted their help—what mattered was that they _needed_ it. 

Likewise, Fareeha is here, with Helix, helping to keep the Anubis God Program contained.  Many disagree with their presence, see them as a legacy of Overwatch, and they are, in a way, for it was Overwatch who first contracted out to Helix the security of the facility, when their own influence began to wane.  Therefore, Helix’s presence, their attempts to restore order to the region, are not the most popular, but Fareeha knows it is for the best.

If they do not act, who will? 

In the power vacuum that followed the Anubis Facility shutting down, and the destruction caused by the Omnic Crisis, those who would prey on the vulnerable found it all too easy to seize control.  Slowly, Helix is pushing them back, is bringing order to chaos, is helping the community rebuild, finally, and work towards building a new future.  Hakim and his people are still strong but, in time, Fareeha is confident that Cairo will flourish, once again.

And that is worth the sacrifice. 

It is, Fareeha thinks, what her mother would want, if she could see her now.  Or, rather, it is not what Ana would want _for Fareeha_ , but it is what Ana herself would do, put her life on the line in the hopes of helping others, helping their people, and she would think it worthwhile if she saved so little as a single life.

This, Fareeha is certain of.

Would Ana be proud?  Of the work, yes, if not of Fareeha, but that is what matters more. 

To know what she is doing is right, Fareeha has never needed her mother’s approval, only her example, and it may sting to know that her mother would be disappointed in her, upset with her decisions, may pain her to think that they died on bad terms but still, she is proud of herself, and that is enough.

It must be.

What she is doing here continues her mother’s legacy, and _that_ is how Fareeha shows love for her mother, by respecting what it was she devoted her life to, and not her dreams for her daughter. 

In time, Fareeha would like to think, Ana would have come around, would have come to see that what her daughter was going was a good thing, and would have been proud of her.  She would _like_ to think it, but she knows, too, it is not true.  Her stubbornness is inherited from her mother, after all.  For the very fact that Ana felt Fareeha’s enlistment was in spite of her, Fareeha knows that it would never be acceptable to her mother, would never be forgiven, because if it was, what would that mean, for Ana?  What would it mean to accept that she had stubbornly pushed away her daughter for years, with nothing to show for it?  What would it mean to say that her pride blinded her?

Her pride would blind her still.  Ana was many things that Fareeha seeks to emulate, but forgiving?  Able and willing to accept her mistakes?  She was neither of those.

Still, in absence of a mother to make up with, Fareeha can at least do right by Ana’s legacy, can work to uphold it, to ensure that, always, there is an Amari guarding Egypt.

That is something, at least.

It is something, and she clings to it like the lifeline it is, tells herself over and over that the work she does is worth any sacrifice, that she was born to serve others, and her happiness coming secondary is understandable, when lives are at stake.  She has to believe this because if not?  If not, then she chose this for nothing, this isolation, this feeling of drowning even on the driest of land, the air in her lungs made unbreathable. 

If not, she threw away her final years with her mother for naught.

And that, she could not live with.

Not that what she has done, in the past few days, has felt much like living. 

Given the role her mother played in Overwatch’s creation, and the role of her death in its downfall, Fareeha has been switched to guarding the temple at night, and her sleep schedule has shifted accordingly.

It would be bad optics, they told her, for Ana’s daughter to be too visible right now, would not attract the sort of attention Helix wants, particularly as it attempts to distance itself from the contract work it did with Overwatch, from that legacy.  Never mind that _Pharah_ is so much more than an Amari, than Ana’s daughter, and Fareeha is a woman unto herself; the public will not care, and neither does the chain of command.

So, now she works nights.

It suits her mood, in all honesty, being able to sleep beneath her window in the day, curtains open, light spilling in and the world continuing to march onwards outside, busy people passing her by while she lies in bed and just lets time _go._

A little act of rebellion in its own way; Ana never could abide by idleness.

Neither, usually, could Fareeha, but she cannot bear to be in the world right now, to be a part of it, and all the myriad of people whose lives are just _continuing_ when such a large part of hers has gone.

Is this mourning, she wonders?  She did not mourn when her mother died, could not.  After all, she scarcely knew Ana at that point, and would not have known what to say, what to do, would not have had the words for any of the things she was feeling in that time, and felt, too, that her relationship with her mother had been dead for years.

But maybe it was just easier, then, because a part of Ana was still so very much alive, in Overwatch.  It felt like Fareeha might switch on the news at any moment and hear that her mother had completed some operation or another, or even see her face as she announced something before the press.  It did not feel so _final_ as this, her mother being declared KIA.

How could it be?  They never found a body.  Ana’s grave lives empty, while the corpse of Overwatch’s headquarters, still smoldering weeks later, is still appearing on the news.

This is not to say that Fareeha believes her mother to be alive; she knows that Ana must be dead, body or not.  The woman she knew would never let anything stop her from returning to Overwatch, so if Ana is gone, she _must_ be dead.

But still, it is less final, a funeral with no body, than this is, far less so.

Probably, Fareeha should talk to someone about this.  Probably, she should allow herself to give voice to her feelings, to discuss what it is that has happened, and how it is impacting her.  Probably, it would help to talk.  But to whom?

There is no one in the world who knows how Fareeha felt, feels, about her mother’s passing, no one who could possibly understand what their bond to one another was.  While it may be true that they had not spoken to one another in years, it is also true that they were the most important people in one another’s lives, still, that what they did to one another, they did because of love.

Because she could not stand to see Fareeha die, Ana pushed her away, thinking that the pain of such a severance would be enough to make Fareeha second guess her decisions and follow a safer path, and because Fareeha loved her mother she could never be satisfied with such, needed to be able to continue her mother’s legacy, to fulfill it, because she respected her mother not on the basis of her mother’s love for her, but on her achievements, her actions, her ideals.  To have obeyed her mother’s wishes would have been a betrayal of her legacy.

No one understands that.  No one could.

Well, no one save, perhaps, for her father, but Fareeha thinks he has suffered enough for his proximity to the two of them already.

He would not say so, of course, has never made her feel guilty for having fought with her mother, or wanting to pursue her dreams, but he does not need to say so, either.

When, giving testimony about Overwatch before the United Nations, advocating for its shutdown, Mercy said that _When the deepest bonds break, all you can do is pray you stay out of the crossfire,_ Fareeha thought that the look in her eyes was so, so familiar.

Overwatch destroyed the people it touched, that is the conceit, and while Fareeha does not necessarily disagree, saw what it did to her mother, to her father, to herself, and knows, now, what it did to all of the other people who served in it, while she knows that it could be destructive even to the communities it saved, such as her own, she cannot help but feel it is better than nothing.

Without Overwatch, none of them would be left to say that they were hurt by it, none of them would be alive to have relationships be severed.

Right now, it is an unpopular opinion, and Fareeha knows better than to voice it, but it is one that she _feels_ nonetheless, and while Helix does its best not to draw attention to the ways in which they continue the legacy of Overwatch, Fareeha is proud to be continuing their work.

Such as it is.

In this case, continuing the work of Overwatch is not terribly interesting, is only Fareeha standing alone in a mostly dark room, in front of the core of the contained God Program, and ensuring that no one breaks in.  Normally, her job involves quite a bit more action, but this is out of the public eye, like they want her to be, and so this is what she is asked to do, now. 

It is only temporary, she tells herself, and for all that it is boring, she knows that it is still important work.  If someone were to free the God Program from containment, it would mean another Omnic Crisis, and with Overwatch gone, that would surely be an end to human life. 

 _Being a hero is not all that exciting, Fareeha_ , her mother once told her, _It’s a lot of paperwork._ Maybe Ana meant it to dissuade Fareeha, to dispel her of any glamorous notions she might have about the work that her mother did in Overwatch, but it did not work, and now, Fareeha reminds herself of what her mother told her, and it has an even more opposite effect of what Ana intended, is encouraging.

Just because this is boring, standing here and hoping that nothing happens, does not mean that it is unimportant.  This work, too, can have value.

And right now—well, she is itching to fight, to do something, feels it just under her skin, that desire for action, to dispel all the frustration she feels at people celebrating Overwatch’s fall, and the anxiety that hovers just beneath the surface, the fear of what will come next, but she cannot indulge in any of that—she needs to be alone, wants to be.  To hear what other people are saying, it would only make her angry, or sad, to know that they do not understand what they have done, in destroying Overwatch, will only make her worry for the future, and struggle not to snap that her mother did not _die_ so that they could say that her work was for nothing.

It was not for nothing.  It was _not_.  Fareeha is here, and she is alive, and so are all of those who would question Overwatch, and they would not be, if the Omnic Crisis had not been ended.

That was twenty years ago, she knows, but still, it is living memory for most of them.  Within their lifetimes, Overwatch was the only thing that brought humanity back from the brink, and so quickly they have forgotten.

Alone, here, the dark blue of the desert at night soothes Fareeha.  In the light, it is all oranges, and glaring, painful to look at and almost sharp, in a way, the light bouncing off the surfaces and reflecting back into her eyes.  During the day it is hot, and angry, just as she wants to be, but at night, it is not, is cool, a breeze filtering through the room and making Fareeha shiver, dark colors and low light gentle on her eyes, solitude providing her with a chance to forget, just for a moment, the things that people are saying, and to be alone with her own thoughts, her own feelings her, own grief.

Blue for sadness, blue for pride, blue for Overwatch.

It all fits, not a thing out of place, just the cool air, cool colors, cooling of Fareeha’s feelings and the breeze which—

—She is indoors, there should not be a breeze.

Instantly, she tenses, is ready to fight, takes the safety off her weapon and straightens.  There is a panic button, in her suit, but she does not hit it yet, because just because some _thing_ is here does not mean some _one_ is, and just last month she was teasing Tariq for having radioed in an emergency and nearly pissed himself with fear over what turned out to simply be a lost bird.  She does not hit it yet, but she is ready to.

“Show yourself,” she demands, tracing the breeze towards its source further into the center of the room, where the God Program is.  “This is a secure facility, and I am authorized to use deadly force.”

When she gives orders like that, her voice sounds more like her mother’s than at any other time.  She used to practice it, her commander voice, when she was a child, watching her mother run drills and barking fake orders at the recruits.  They answered her with a chuckle, or a mock salute; this intruder does not answer her at all.

In fact, she does not see anyone, and the closer she gets to the source of the breeze, the more she begins to wonder if it is not simply her imagination.

It feels like it is coming from the God Program.

She leans in closer, closer than she has ever been to that which would have destroyed the world, and she shivers—but the God Program is hot, like any computer using all of its power.  Should it not be cool?  Should it not be off?

That cannot be good, she thinks, raises her hand to radio in, taps the side of her helmet and—

—A flash of light, or, not really a flash, but a view into another room, where the lights are on, and something, someone is tumbling out of the sky, and into the room.

Instantly, Fareeha’s hand is on the panic button, and she has begun to press it down when she sees the face of the intruder and freezes.

It is familiar, and so, too, is the voice in the moment they make eye contact.

“Oh _shit_ ,” says the intruder, at the same time Fareeha is again remembering to press the panic button, and there is a sudden stinging feeling on Fareeha’s forehead and—

—And that is all.

She cannot move, cannot breathe, is falling to the ground unable to keep open her eyes, and her thoughts ought to be on what she was shot with, if she has any chance of survival at all, but instead all she can think of is that voice, that face, those eyes.

_Ummi?_

Fareeha wakes up.  Not that she doubted she would, really, but she supposes that, when one is shot in the forehead by an intruder, it might be a logical thing to worry about, if she had had the time to worry about it before losing consciousness.

And she definitely _was_ hit in the forehead by something, feels the stinging and thinks there is probably going to be a nasty knot to explain tomorrow.

If there is a tomorrow.

She realizes, quite suddenly, that with her having been incapacitated and therefore having left the God Program unguarded, for who knows how long, that there is a strong possibility this intruder, this woman with a stolen face and stolen voice, might have jus brought about the end of the world as Fareeha knows it.

 _Fuck_ , she thinks, although the word is not at all strong enough for what she is feeling.  This is the only conceivable way her already rotten week could have gotten worse.

Or, she thinks that, but when she tries to stand, to find the intruder, to do _something_ , she realizes that she is tied down, and that her suit is entirely disabled.

She flounders, and a voice, all too uncomfortably familiar says, “Don’t hurt yourself, habibti.”

“Mum?” she asks, turns her head in the direction of the voice and realizes that, with the way the intruder is backlit, warm yellow light from the main hallway behind her, Fareeha cannot make out more than her silhouette.

No response.

A different tactic, then, “What are you doing here?”

“You know better than to ask that,” the intruder, this _not-_ Ana says, and Fareeha knows from the way she sees her weight shift that she is crossing her arms over her chest, a movement uncannily familiar but somehow wrong, all at once.  It is like seeing a ghost, or a familiar face in the corner of one’s eye in a crowded market.  She does not quite _belong,_ and Fareeha can tell.

“Do I?” Fareeha asks.  Of course, she knew not to ask her mother questions about her work with Overwatch, but this could not be that because Ana is dead, and Overwatch is no more. 

“Yes,” not her mother tells her, “Official Overwatch business.”

“Overwatch was shut down,” Fareeha points out.

“Here too?” Not Ana asks, and there is something _wrong_ about the question, and Fareeha thinks she should press but her head is pounding and she winces, and the woman who is not her mother is leaning over her again, eyes sharp.  “Let me help you with that,” she says.

Fareeha should say no, should shout, should scream, should do anything to draw attention to the current situation, but the woman who is not her mother’s hand on her forehead feels _right,_ and the sting of working nanobiotics proves that, at least for the time being, and Fareeha thinks, _Well, she wouldn’t have wasted those if she was only going to kill me._

With Overwatch having fallen, its proprietary technologies are very scarce, these days, and although the legal battle between Doctor Ziegler and the United Nations is all over the news, Fareeha very much doubts nanotech is going to be mass produced again any time soon.  Any of it that remains is a precious resource.

Part of Fareeha wants to bring that up, to ask this stranger why it is that she would be using such a thing on a person she just _shot_ , but she has bigger concerns, namely, “How did you even get here?”

Her tone is accusing, when she asks, carrying in it all the weight of _You’re supposed to be dead,_ with none of the words.

“You saw how,” the intruder tells her.

“I didn’t,” Fareeha says, “It looked like you fell from the fucking _sky._ ”  Which she could have, Fareeha supposes.  She herself flies, after all, but the woman who is not her mother is not wearing any sort of jet pack, and she could not possibly have teleported in, because the facility is secured against hardlight tech.

“Maybe I did,” and the amused voice does sound so much like her mother’s that it is hard for Fareeha to believe it is _not_ her.  But Ana is dead, and even if she were not, she would not be _here._

“Give me a straight answer or I’ll start screaming,” Fareeha is trying very hard to sound threatening, but it is difficult, given her current position tied up on the ground, and lack of any weapons.

“You’ll do no such thing,” the figure stands, again, dusts her hands on her pants and moves back towards the God Program, where she had been when Fareeha awoke.  “You can’t.  You’ll shout, maybe, and you’re welcome to try it, but I won’t aim to incapacitate anyone else.”  As she says this, she hefts a rifle, a familiar Kinamura.

Fareeha’s blood runs cold.  Since she was a child, Fareeha never could scream, her vocal cords always seeming to freeze up when she tried to reach that upper register, not even a whisper coming out.  There is nothing wrong with her, physically, and she can shout just fine, but something still prevents her from screaming, properly.

If this woman knows that then—

“Mum?”

It is impossible.  Her mother is dead.  Yet as much as she wants to believe that this is a trick, an illusion, that the God Program is messing with her somehow—only her mother could know this.

Well, her father could, too, but Fareeha thinks that the chance of her father betraying her is lower than that of her mother somehow being alive, and dismisses the notion out of hand.

But if Ana is alive, why is she here?  It does not make sense.  If anywhere, she ought to be in Poland where she—where _they_ left her for dead.

 _Could it be Anubis?_ Fareeha wonders.  What, exactly, the God Programs are capable of, she does not know.  Historically, none of the Crisis Era omnics controlled by Anubis, or any of the others, were humanoid; it was a tenet of the belief in omnic superiority that human forms were inherently inferior, were lesser for their mortality, their flesh, were inefficient.  So it seems unlikely that this is a trick, that this is somehow something other than her mother, as she appears to be.

Then again, Anubis has had more than a decade in isolation, ample time to change tactics, to reconsider, too—

—Her head hurts far too much for her to be thinking this hard.  Whatever her mother shot her with, it has left her drowsy and dizzy.

And, she thinks, it _must_ be her mother.  No matter what else Anubis can do, it cannot have known about her voice.

Can it?

“Yes, Fareeha?” the intruder, her mother, answers her, and it _sounds_ right, her name in that voice.

“I can’t…,” her voice is thick with some emotion, and she cannot place it even within herself.  “You were… How are you here?”

Does she believe that this is her mother?  Logically, no, she has her doubts, there are things that are wrong, and things that just do not quite _fit,_ a feeling that something is off.  Yet the part of her which is ruled by her emotions says this _must_ be Ana, wants desperately for her mother to be alive, to be here, to not have been destroyed along with Overwatch.

Unlike Ana, Fareeha never has been religious, but now she finds herself hoping that this is a miracle.

“I told you,” says she, “O—”

“—Overwatch business,” Fareeha says with her.  Wrong answer.  Fareeha pivots again to believing that this Ana is somehow fake.  “They’re gone, Mum.”

“You would know,” says Ana, with a bitterness which is very much out of place.  Why would Fareeha know?  Before she can ask, the _thing_ that looks like her mother is continuing, “But did you really think shutting us down would mean an end to all we worked towards?”

“Well…” Fareeha begins, not really sure what to say to that.  It has only been four days, but things _feel_ very final.

“The UN can’t stop us,” Ana says, with a sort of determination that makes Fareeha believe, once again, that this _must_ be her mother.  “We were ready for this.  The plans have been in place for years, to go underground if the need arose.  The world still needs us and we _won’t_ let them down.”

“Years?”  How many?

“The signs have been there for a long time.”

“Is that why—” Fareeha starts, not sure if she means to ask if that is why she was never allowed to join Overwatch, or if that is why her mother was mysteriously killed in action, no body left to be buried.

“Yes,” Ana says, not even letting her finish the question.

It is convenient, Fareeha thinks, maybe _too_ convenient, but she knows from the news that they have yet to find Jack’s body either, or Gabriel’s.  And now that she thinks about it, Liao vanished a few years ago, and Reinhardt was forced into retirement shortly thereafter.  All the original Strike Team disappearing one by one.

It fits, and Fareeha wants to believe it.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

Ana steps closer to her, and when her face hits the light one of her eyes glows, the wrong one, “Tell you?  What would you have done?”

“Helped,” Fareeha says, “I know I could have.”

A laugh from the intruder, then, and it sounds so right, Fareeha wants to believe it, she does, “You and I both know that isn’t true.”

This is not her mother, it cannot be.  If she were really Ana, there would be no reason for her to react like that, unless she _truly_ does not believe Fareeha to be capable of helping her.  Even if she did not think Fareeha ought to have enlisted, Ana would _know_ that she is just as capable as any Amari before her, did not think her weak, only wished to protect her.  Her real mother, wherever she is, believed in Fareeha.

Right?

Well, maybe not.  After all, Ana never said, specifically, why she would not allow Fareeha to join Overwatch, other than to say it was _too dangerous_ , and when Fareeha pointed out that her mother would protect her as she did everyone, Ana had no response.  There was something else there, in her eyes, that Fareeha could never place, and she could not ask, either, did not dare to.  Only once did she try, and the response from her mother was—nothing.  _You’re lying_ , she accused, _I know there’s something—You won’t say it, but there’s some other reason._ At that, her mother stiffened, face going tight and eyes far away, and when she spoke her voice was cold, _There is nothing else._ A lie, and an obvious one, but there was nothing more to say on the subject; her mother would entertain no talk of it for a week, and seemed sad.

Could it be that she disappointed her mother?  Maybe.  She would prefer to think not, of course, would like to believe that she is worthy to carry on the Amari legacy, and that she is doing so now, but when did Ana ever say she was proud of Fareeha?  Not when she learned to shoot, not when she enlisted, not when she was recommended for Overwatch, and Fareeha begins to think that maybe this _is_ her mother, after all.

“I’m sorry,” says she, because she does not know what else to say.  “Untie me, please?  I can help now.”

“Will you?” there is amusement in Ana’s tone, and distrust, too.

“Yes,” Fareeha insists, because she wants to prove herself to her mother—if this is indeed Ana.  And if this is not Ana, if Anubis has found a way to steal faces, bodies, voices, thoughts, if that is so, then it is best to keep her away from everyone else.

“I suppose,” not quite her mother says, “It couldn’t hurt.  If you try anything I’ll just shoot you again.”

“I would prefer you didn’t,” Fareeha says.

“Then be good.”

As if Fareeha were ever anything less than perfectly behaved.  She is a soldier, she follows orders well.

Well, except for now.

After all, offering to help this intruder is decidedly _not_ according to her orders, is in direct violation of everything she has been told to do, endangers their entire mission.  And yet, and _yet,_ she wants, badly, to help, and it feels right.

In any case, with how easily this intruder shot her down, and if they truly have her mother’s skills as a sniper, they will have no trouble dispatching the remaining Helix members here.  If anything, Fareeha tells herself, she is _helping_ her comrades by ensuring that they do not encounter this woman. 

A rationalization, but one that works for her.

The intruder makes quick work of untying her, hands moving fast, and when she leans over Fareeha part of her hair falls in Fareeha’s face, and she thinks _She smells like Mum,_ and she moves like her, too, same tenderness as she kneels, joints sensitive after a lifetime of bending over to snipe, but there is still that detail, in her eyes, that is _wrong._

Perhaps it is nothing.  Perhaps she simply got her second eye cybernetized, when she was ‘dead,’ and Fareeha is worrying for no reason.  It would make sense, to do it just in case—but Fareeha only saw the one eye glow.

Maybe that was just the light.

Just in case, Fareeha thinks, she will have to keep her safety off.  She will ensure, too, that nothing is wrong with the God Program before anything else happens.  If she needs to, she can win this fight, she is sure.  A lifetime spent sparring with her mother taught her all of Ana’s tricks, and she herself has learned some new ones, in the meantime, whilst in the army and with Helix that Ana has never seen.

And her mother would never expect it.  Save for enlisting, Fareeha never disobeyed her, not once.  All Ana ever needed to say is that she would _prefer_ Fareeha not do something, and Fareeha would not do it, there was never even any need to give her an order.

So, Fareeha thinks, if she turns on this not-Ana now, if this woman who may or may not be her mother remembers what Fareeha was like as a child, then she will never see the rocket coming.

And here, too, is another advantage: Fareeha’s shot does not have to land, in order to kill them both. 

The moon shining through the windows paints the hall in stripes.  Light, dark, light, dark, light, dark.  They walk side by side, neither willing to have their back to the other, towards the God Program, and Fareeha’s opinion shifts with each step.

 _Light,_ and her mother is truly her mother, must be, for she knows things only her mother could know.

 _Dark,_ and there is a shine in her eyes that should not be there, and it makes Fareeha wary, it is mechanical, and Fareeha may have lived most of her life post-Crisis, may work alongside omnics every day, but _this_ she does not trust, makes her remember the footage of all those killed in cold blood.

 _Light,_ and she thinks of what it would mean if her mother were alive, thinks she has a chance to show her mother that what she does is good, is right, to prove that she is worthy of the name Amari, and that she would have succeeded in Overwatch.

 _Dark,_ and she thinks that her mother would never have left Overwatch, if she were alive, not even for something like this, not in a million years, for Overwatch was everything to Ana.

 _Light,_ and she thinks of all the things that no machine could match, her mother’s laugh, her mother’s smell, the soreness of her joints; there was always something so very _human_ about her mother, in moments when she let her guard down, vulnerable as the rest of them after all.

 _Dark,_ and Fareeha knows that she does not know what a God Program is capable of, and there is something different behind this woman’s words, something colder in her willingness to use lethal force—Ana killed to protect, and who would she be protecting now?

 _Light,_ and Fareeha wants so badly to believe that this is real, that this is happening, that things can and do come full circle, sometimes.

 _Dark,_ and she knows that sometimes, they do not.

 _Light,_ and her mother turns to her, as she stops before the God Program, and Fareeha sees her face clearly illuminated for the first time and it _is_ her, it is, everything is right, from the amount her tattoo is faded to the slight arch of one of her eyebrows.

This is Ana, this is her mother, and in that moment, Fareeha trusts her, she has to.

“What did you do to it?” she asks.

“Nothing,” says Ana, and Fareeha believes her, cannot do otherwise.  “But I’ve been monitoring it.  There’s something off.”

“Monitoring?” she has not _seen_ her mother here before, and she is certain no one else has.

“Remotely,” Ah, that explains it.  “Since the Crisis, in fact.  It used to be Liao’s job, but now…”

Now Liao is gone, and Overwatch too.  Evidently their duties have fallen to Ana.

“I see,” Fareeha says.  “What’s wrong?”

“I don’t know yet,” Ana says.  “There was unusual activity, but it doesn’t seem to be transmitting anything.”

“We haven’t picked up anything here,” or, they have not told Fareeha, if they have.  Perhaps only the higher-ups know.

“You wouldn’t have,” Ana says, voice very certain, turning to look at the God Program now, instead of Fareeha.  “There are things we couldn’t tell the world.”

“Such as?”

“How we contained them,” and that makes sense, Fareeha supposes, because if no one knows, then no one can break the system, but still—

“That seems dangerous,” and her voice is clipped as she says it.  Now that Overwatch is no more, what would the world do if they were to break free, again?  How would they stop a second Crisis?

“Not as dangerous as everyone knowing,” her mother turns to her again as she says it, voice firm as it was the day she told Fareeha that she would be blocking her application to join Overwatch, “Trust me.”

A beat, two.  Fareeha does not know what to say to that.  Probably, she is right.  But not even a vague idea?  No hint to help the world, should something go wrong?  What could the implications possibly be, that are worse than that, a second Crisis uncontained?

“Okay,” she says, because even if she does not agree with that premise, there is no arguing with her mother, now, not when she uses that tone, and Fareeha can press again later, maybe, but she does not know how long she was unconscious for, and her shift might be ending soon.  Better to wait until they do not risk being caught.  “In that case, what do you need to figure it out?”

“Overwatch,” Ana says, and that is _not_ helpful.

“What, besides the impossible?”

“I don’t know,” Ana admits, “Time, and to contact some people.  I don’t suppose you live nearby?”

“I…” Fareeha starts, stops.  She _does_ , but… “I’m in your old condo.”

“Oh,” Ana says.  “I still had it?”

“Yes?” Should her mother not know this?

Perhaps not.  When she entered the condo, after her mother’s death, it was covered in dust, and everything was perfectly preserved from when it was abandoned during the Crisis, a time capsule of Fareeha’s babyhood.  Maybe, after so many years away, so many years believing she would never be able to return home, Ana simply forgot about it.

“In that case,” Ana tells her, “It’ll do fine.  Did you find the switch beneath your old changing table?”

“No?” Ana only died a few months ago, and Fareeha has not been able to bring herself to redo all the rooms.  The bedroom, yes, and the living room and study, but Fareeha has no need for a nursery or second bedroom, so the room that was once hers has been left untouched.

“Perfect,” Ana tells her.  “Now help me get out of here.”

“Can’t you just come out the way you came in?” After all, Fareeha had not noticed her until she was already at the center of the room, and it will be easier than sneaking her out the front.

“No,” Ana tells her, “I don’t know if you noticed, but falling is one-way.”

Right.  What _was_ her mother’s plan to get out of here?  Shooting everyone she came across?

“I can fly,” Fareeha says, gestures to her suit before realizing that it is obvious.  “I mean,” she corrects, “I can fly _you_.”

“And just leave me on the roof?” Her mother does not seem to appreciate the suggestion.

“That is how you got in, isn’t it?”

“…Of course,” the pause is just a moment too long, and Fareeha wonders what it was her mother considered, in that moment.

No point in pressing, a quick glance at the clock in the corner of her HUD tells her they have five minutes to remove her mother from the room before the shift change leads to Saleh popping in to say hi to Fareeha, and ask if she needs a quick break before he heads out.  Normally, it is welcome, for he is a friend, but now, it is stressful.

If he were to see her mother—he would not ask questions.  He would do what it is he is paid to, what Fareeha is _also_ paid to, and shoot first, and ask questions after.

He is a good soldier, but right now that is not terribly convenient to Fareeha.

Another glance at Anubis—it looks fine, sounds fine, and whatever that strange breeze was, it is gone now, and Fareeha thinks, this is safe, or should be.  Nothing has been done to the God Program, that she can see, so she should trust her mother, like she wants to, she _should._

Her mother has been here long enough already that if Fareeha were to turn her in, to file an incident report, it would expose that she spent more than a quarter of an hour in the company of the intruder, and knowingly so.  She would certainly lose her job, were that the case.

But if her mother escapes, then who would know that Fareeha ever knew she was here at all?

It is not good logic, and Fareeha knows it.  Normally, she would never entertain such thoughts, but now…

This is her mother, this is not some stranger.  Her very _dead_ mother.  Fareeha will never get another chance like this, for the dead do not simply come back to, do not stumble back into their daughters’ lives, they are _gone,_ as Ana should be.

Who is to say, if Fareeha slips away now, that she will ever see her mother again?

But if she turns her in, then she knows she will have lost her mother forever.  Even if Ana does survive, does escape, she will surely not want to speak to Fareeha again, after that, after preventing her from completing whatever mission brought her here.

And if she is not truly Ana?  Well, she remembers enough of Fareeha’s life that she _seems_ like her mother, and maybe that is enough.  If she is something else in her mother’s body, with her mother’s memories—there are still questions Fareeha wants answered.  Perhaps this not-Ana might be able to do so.

Everything is in place, Fareeha reminds herself, this stranger is not taking anything, and none of the sensors protecting the God Program went off.  If this intruder claiming to be her mother did anything, it is clearly beyond Helix’s ability to combat.

So, she will do it, will—

—A voice, behind them.

“Farah?” Saleh is asking.

Quick as she can, Fareeha whips around, moves closer to the door, which, fortunately, is to the side somewhat, the view of the God Program—and consequently Ana and Fareeha—obscured from view by a column. 

“Here!” she says, and hopes she sounds normal.

“What’re you doing back there?” he asks in English, not in Arabic.  Like Fareeha, his girlfriend grew up outside of Egypt, mostly, and lately when it is just the two of them he speaks English with her, for practice.  He does not really need the practice, in Fareeha’s opinion, but she appreciates the chance to speak what was once her primary language. 

“Oh,” says Fareeha, “You know, nothing really, thought I heard something but it’s just another damn bird.”

“Damn,” Saleh says, “You should’ve radioed in like Tariq did, would’ve been funny.  Our brave lieutenant, brought low by a bulbul!”

“Very funny,” Fareeha says, flatly, moving further into his view.

He frowns, “You sure you’re alright?  You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

Fareeha hopes she does not blanch _more_ at that—because in fact she has been speaking with a ghost, is hoping that Saleh stops moving further into the room, lest _he_ encounter one, too.  “Maybe I have,” she says with a forced little laugh.  “I don’t suppose you happen to know any paranormal investigators?”

“As a matter of fact…” Saleh starts, before laughing himself, more genuinely, “I don’t think they’d be much use, though.  They’re meant to hunt ghosts, not gods.”

“Gods?”

“Anubis?”

“Oh,” says Fareeha, “Right,” because she knows that, of course, knows that Anubis was god of the dead, and it would be funny, if she were not currently panicking over the possibility of them being discovered, that her mother would return to her here.  Despite the Udjat, and fondness for mythology, the only god Ana ever really put any faith in was Allah.  If Anubis really had brought her back—

“You sure you’re okay?” Saleh asks her, much closer now.  It is common, of course, to stand near someone when speaking, and courteous, but they are just around the corner from the God Program now, around the corner from where her mother is hiding, and Fareeha knows her worry is showing on her face, this is bad, _very_ bad.  If he finds out, then _someone_ is going to die.  Him, or Ana, or Fareeha, and regardless of the outcome, Fareeha can consider herself unemployed, and everything she has worked for—having lost her mother, having dedicated herself to protecting the innocent—it will be gone.

“I’m fine,” and she says it firmly, but she very much is _not_ , is panicking a bit, and she can feel herself starting to sweat, despite the coolness of the desert night.

“You really don’t _look_ fine,” he says.  “Bird really scared you, huh?”

“I guess,” says she, “Yeah,” grateful for the excuse.

“I can just go take a look and—”

“No!”  Fareeha says, and then calmer, “No, it’s fine, really, it was just a bird, and I _don’t_ need the rest of the squad hearing about—”

“Nonsense!” Saleh says, and darts around Fareeha, turns the corner.

“Stop!” Fareeha tries to grab him, but he is faster than he looks, and she is still groggy from _whatever_ Ana shot her with.

He looks at the God Program, and Fareeha does, too, only half second behinds him and is shocked to see—

“Nothing here,” says Saleh.

“Right,” Fareeha says, and laughs nervously, “Why would there be, it was just a bird.”

“Yeah,” he agrees, turns to give her a thumbs up before frowning and dropping his hand.  “You look weird, though.  Are you sure—”

“I’m fine!” Fareeha insists, again too loudly, stepping closer to him and again into the light, “I’m fine.”

“You look like you took something,” he says, eyes narrowing.  “Your eyes are huge.”

“What?” Fareeha is genuinely confused, now.  “Saleh, you know I wouldn’t—”

“It’s okay,” he tells her, voice comforting, for some reason, one hand coming down on her shoulder, “I know it must be rough for you right now, Overwatch ending at all.”

“Ah,” Fareeha says, “Yes.  It’s been, uh, really hard.”  She does not sound convincing, to her own ears, when she starts but she adds, “Not so much Overwatch falling itself, but dealing with other people.  I can’t go out, you know, during the day.  I feel like everyone’s watching me and—and that they’re talking about it.  About Mum.  And I want to tell them—to tell them that it isn’t— _she_ wasn’t—”

Telling a bit of truth was supposed to make things more convincing, just a bit, but Fareeha is surprised to find that being _honest_ like this, telling someone how she feels, affects her more than she thought, and she feels tears start to well at the corners of her eyes, makes herself blink them back.  The words all tumbled out of her before she could stop them, giving far more of herself away than she intended.  There is a rush of shame heating her skin now, because she is _stronger_ than this, does not cry.  When her mother died, she was silent at the funeral, and still, and now?  Now there is no excuse for the way her voice grew thick and her words failed her.

If Saleh were anyone else, it would be enough to scare him off—crying makes many people uncomfortable, particularly in their line of work, where emotion is so strongly discouraged—but instead he takes a half step back, gives her space to breathe, and tells her, “It’s okay.”

“It isn’t,” Fareeha says, and means it, “I shouldn’t be letting it interfere with my work like—”

“It’s _fine_ ,” he insists, “If you need the rest of the night off I can cover for you.  We’ll say you took ill, or something.”

“No!” and Fareeha knows she should be more subtle, should not be so insistent, but somewhere in here, Ana is hiding, and if she leaves him here, it would undoubtedly end badly, for all involved.

“Listen,” he says, “I know you might feel like you need to force yourself through this, but you should really rest and let whatever this is,” he gestures again towards her face, the pupils he swears are dilated, “Wear off.  You’re not gonna be useful like this.”

“I didn’t—” Fareeha starts, stops, tries again, because she knows he will not believe the truth, so what she needs is a lie, something close enough to what he already believes that she can pull it off, but nothing that will make him feel as if he _needs_ to stay.  “It’s prescription!”

That, at least, would make sense as something she would not want to admit to, because that sort of thing—it is not talked about.  Not here, certainly, not in their profession.  Even _lying_ , Fareeha feels ashamed to admit it, hates that he might believe she needs such a thing.

She does not.  She _will_ not.  She is her mother’s daughter, and she is strong.

“…I see,” says he.  “I won’t tell anyone.”  Another pause, and then, his voice lowered, “It takes a while, but it works,” says he.  “You should take a few days off while you adjust, though.  The first week’s the roughest.”  He is speaking from experience, it is clear, and Fareeha wonders how she never knew this abut him.  Never has he struck her as the type who would need such a thing.

“Thanks,” says Fareeha, and her voice sounds relieved, but it is only because Saleh has clearly bought he lie, and will be leaving her alone, now.  “I’ll tell Captain Khalil I’m taking the week.”  Her captain knew her mother, served under her briefly during the Crisis—he will let her have this, will not question it.

“Good,” Saleh says, “Good.  You sure you don’t want me to take over watch?”  They both wince as he says it, the similarity to _Overwatch_ clearly unintentional.

“No,” Fareeha says, “I’ll be fine.  Don’t keep your girlfriend waiting.”

“Is that an order?” he is trying to be funny, to break the tension after his slip of the tongue, Fareeha can tell, but all she can think is, _Great,_ now _he follows my orders._

“It is, soldier,” she plays along, because she would do anything, at this point, to get him to leave.

“I’ll give her a kiss for you, Lieutenant,” he says, and with that, he is gone.

Watching him walk away, Fareeha holds her breath, worries at every second that he is going to turn around, that he saw something, after all, and all of that was just stalling for time as he waits for the right moment to act.

But he does not turn around, save at the very edge of the doorway, giving a small mock salute, and Fareeha finally lets free the breath she was holding, starts to relax, leaning back against a column, when a laugh directly beside her startles her.

“You were always such a terrible liar,” her mother is clearly amused by this, but Fareeha is much less so, is still full of adrenaline and worry, so much so that she cannot help but notice the way the light filtering in from high above them makes her mother’s skin ghoulish, harsh light exaggerating the wrinkles and sapping the warmth from her skin.

“Someone,” Fareeha says, stiffly, moving to stand taller, because she _tried,_ she did, and she is not in the mood to be teased, “Might have taught me how, if she weren’t so busy with other things.”

The comment hits harder than Fareeha intends, because mother is suddenly very still beside her, and her voice has lost a good deal of its warmth when she says, “So that you would have had an easier time defying me?  I think not.”

Are they really going to get into this again?  Now, and here?

“Well I’m not defying you now, am I?” How could Fareeha have ever doubted this was her mother?  No AI could ever match Ana’s ability to be disappointed in anything Fareeha did for her.  Even now, risking her career, her _life_ , she is reminded that she was not the daughter that Ana wanted.  “I could’ve turned you over, couldn’t I?”

“I’m sorry,” says her mother, after a pause, and _that_ shocks Fareeha, possibly more than her mother’s sudden appearance.  When was the last time Fareeha can remember her mother saying she was sorry?  She does not know—certainly, Fareeha has not heard it in the last decade, not since she announced her intent to enlist when she was sixteen.  But it sounds right, sounds genuine, sounds like her mother’s voice did when she said it to Fareeha’s father, one of any thousands of times in her childhood, is the familiar mixture of regret and weariness and defiance, as if Ana were worried that they would fight her, after she said it.

Fareeha has rarely heard it directed at herself, and she knows only how her father would respond, but she is _not_ her father.

When Ana adds, “I didn’t mean that,” Fareeha does not hold back.

“You meant it enough to say it,” both of them know that Ana does not say things she does not mean.

A sigh from her mother, and Fareeha wonders when she got so _old,_ looking at her like this.  The long shadows do not help, obscuring much of her face when she dips her head.  “You’re right,” says she, and Fareeha does not _want_ to be, now, not with what Ana says next, “But I shouldn’t have.  It isn’t you I’m angry at.”

This is not the first time Ana has said such a thing, has apologized for misdirecting her anger—although she never, ever mentions a source—but it takes Fareeha by surprise nonetheless.  Her mother hates such admissions, Fareeha knows, thinks it is bad enough to admit fault and _worse_ to hint at something more.

For there is something, always just beneath the surface, and it is what drives Ana’s moods, not her surroundings.  Fareeha knows this, has known it for some time, long since adjusted to Ana occasionally jumping at shadows, but they never speak of it, as if to put it into words would be to give it power.

Best to move on.  Although Fareeha may be an adult now, and a veteran in her own merit, it is not for her to guess at her mother’s ghosts, not when she can hardly name her own.

“’S’fine,” Fareeha says, “Been a long day for both of us, I think.”

“Yes,” her mother says, voice far away yet again, “It certainly has.”

“We should probably, uh, get you out of here?” Fareeha hates the way she sounds unsure.  With anyone else, it is _easy_ to be commanding, to say what it is she needs to and to sound as if she knows what it is she is doing, but her mother has always had a way of making her feel so small.

“Hmm,” her mother says, “Yes, before you admit to any more problems in order to cover for me.”

“Very funny,” Fareeha says, but it _is_ kind of funny, if she ignores the context, the stress.  “So we should just, uh,” she makes a scooping gesture with her hands, meant to communicate carrying her mother, “Like that?”

A frown from Ana, and Fareeha supposes it is rather undignified for her always put-together mother, “I suppose we have to.”

Carefully, Fareeha picks Ana up, tries to ignore the strangeness of it, and how small her mother feels in her arms, these days, how diminished by Fareeha’s own growth.  She checks, briefly, to make sure Ana is secure, and then jets up.

To her credit, her mother does not flinch, hardly reacts at all, and when the quick, forty-five second ride is over, and Ana is deposited in the sill of a window she can use to climb out to the roof to, she dismounts herself gracefully.

In fact, she hardly looks human at all, backlit by the moon, a shadow in the window, some lurking thing, crouched and watching.

“Thank you,” says she, very clearly by rote.

“You’re welcome,” Fareeha says, by the same reflex.  “I’ll see you back at the condo?”  It was meant to be a statement, but comes out as a question.

“Yes,” says her mother.  “Soon enough.”  She makes no move to leave her perch, but Fareeha has to land, soon, lest she use too much fuel—a little missing, her bosses will not notice, but too much, and they will surely ask questions.  Why would she need to be flying?

When Fareeha lands, her mother is still there, watching, and it is a comforting thing.  Maybe her mother will not abandon her, after all, will keep her word, and be at the condo when Fareeha returns.  But then, maybe not, maybe this last long glance is a protracted goodbye.  Fareeha cannot make out her face, in the light, only the amber glow from her cybernetic eye, and she wishes she could see something more, some sign.  Surely, there must be something that—

A sound from the corridor draws Fareeha’s attention, and when she looks back, Ana has vanished, quickly as she came, and it is only the moon looking back at Fareeha.

She is alone, again, in the blue of the night.


	2. saw you in a dream, then it came to an end, wonder if youll come and visit me again

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> its only week two and i almost forgot to upload this weeks chapter LKJASDLKFJASDLFKA
> 
> in my defense i thought today was thursday?

Blue bleeds into gold and slowly, slowly a new day dawns.  Above, the sky is clear as ever, and it is blue, too, but bright and clear, not cool and comforting like the dark of the night.  Fareeha blinks as she steps out of the Anubis facility and into the morning—it is bright, too bright, sun reflecting back in her eyes off the metal of the mechanical camels that roam by, and she squints in the light.

It is _wrong_ , she thinks, that camels have been supplanted so by these robotic beasts.  Omnics, Fareeha has no problem with, despite her job guarding the God Program, but to have replaced camels?  It is a bridge too far, for her. 

Fareeha was raised too much by her father to have truly grown up with Bedouin traditions, despite her mother’s attempts to educate her about the other culture she was born into, but still, she knows at least about camels, about their importance, about the bonds they form with their owners.  When a rider dies, his camel mourns him, for so long as their own life continues, sometimes a decade or more.  Camels _cry_ when they lose the person to whom they have bonded, some refusing even to eat without being prompted.  To think that they can be replaced, after their extinction, by something metal—it is a farce, at best.

Yet here they are, in the streets of her city.  The Bedouin never use them, could never, they are ghosts, are pale imitations of that they would replace, but the others, the Egyptians who are not from one of the tribes, and especially the foreigners who have come to inhabit the city, the tourists, they use them, keep these specters alive.  Fareeha does not believe in spirits, or souls, does not believe in anything beyond what she can see and know, but she wonders how the camels can rest, with their memory continuously desecrated so, their being reduced to mere pack animals, beasts of labor and not the companions that they truly were.

A deep breath, a calming one, smelling the too-clean air of this, the richest part of the city, owned mostly by white men who rarely step outside, and then she opens her eyes again.  The camel has passed, and her thoughts with it. 

The glare gone, now, from her vision, she is free to see the light of day, to watch the bustling and the goings on and to notice the glance that a woman gives her as she passes by, sideways, before gathering her children closer and hurrying on by.  Fareeha wonders if it is her posture, the tattoo, or her mother’s old Overwatch jacket she has draped across her shoulders which scares the woman off.

No matter.  Her shift is over, and all of this—the daily indignities she faces—does not matter, now, for her mother is at home, waiting for her.

_Ana,_ alive.

She grins, then, and tries immediately to school her features; it is not proper for her to be so giddy, when she _ought_ to be in mourning.  Just ten minutes ago, she told her captain that she needed the next two weeks off, and he granted it, and if he sees the footage of this, her grinning at nothing, it will not look good for her.

But it is hard to hide in the way she walks, that she is feeling better.  There is a certain spring in her step, a brightness to her countenance, that was not there in the past week, a joy about her that she has not known in many years.  Her mother is here, and her mother _needs_ her, needs her to help with something for Overwatch.  It is a dream.

She smiles at people as she passes, the ones who glare and the ones who avert their eyes alike.  Let them grumble, let them stare, let them judge her all they like, for they are wrong, her mother would never abandon them, Overwatch never would—she is here, now, always has been, only needed to hide during the time that Overwatch was under investigation by the United Nations.

She is here, and she will never leave Fareeha again.

What do the thoughts of anyone else matter, when Fareeha at last has a chance to prove herself to her mother?  Why would she allow their judgement to bother her?  The only person who truly matters to her is here, again, wants to be at her side, is willing to work with her, and that is what matters.

Perhaps Fareeha is already romanticizing, slightly, her reunion with her mother, and ignoring the reluctance with which Ana accepted her offer for help, but she is _hopeful,_ for the first time in many years, and who could fault her for that?  When she replays the scene over in her mind, it is less sharp, less reluctant, more tender.  She has doubts, still, of course, but in the final hours of her long lonely vigil she turned the reunion over and over in her mind, replayed it from every angle, and settled on _hope._

Of course, she could be angry, that her mother was alive all this time, and she thought her dead.  She could be suspicious, of whence this intruder came.  She could be scared of the potential repercussions at her job, should Ana’s presence be discovered.

She is all of those things, to some degree.  She _is._ But Fareeha has let bitterness too often ruin her chances at reconciliation with her mother, so she chooses instead to be hopeful now, and to keep all of those other emotions in her back pocket, for when they might be useful.  Right now, the knowledge that her mother is alive is a shield against the world, lets her again face the scrutiny of the public without feeling as if she is being suffocated, because their opinions do not matter to her as much as her mother’s does.

No opinion ever has.

With her good mood, and her hope, Fareeha decides not to go straight home, but to visit the market nearby instead, to pick up ingredients to make breakfast fresh, and some fruit for later.  Her mother is, of course, no stranger to take out, and to microwaved meals, but Fareeha wants to do something _nice_ for her, wants to do something normal.

Breakfast together.  It should be nice, after so long apart.  They can catch up, and refresh, and then get down to business; little enough can be accomplished on an empty stomach, and this way, they have a chance to try and refamiliarize themselves with one another.

To work with another person, one ought to build a rapport; this Fareeha learned from her mother.  For them, Fareeha does not know what it will mean, since they know each other well already, but she hopes that, maybe, it might lead to the beginning of a real understanding between them, or perhaps even a reconciliation.

She knows those hopes are high, but the universe has seen fit to return to her her mother, her _dead_ mother, and so Fareeha does not feel, in that moment, that asking anything would be asking too much.

Everything seems possible, for the first time since her mother first told her _no_ , first sat her down and said that war only took, only hurt, did not make a person better but stole from them until they were barely a person at all, and that Fareeha would not be happy, in that life, that she would not be a hero, but become a shell of something, and would hate it.  Fareeha knew that then to be untrue, just as she knows now that although she is a changed woman, she is not lesser, but even as she did not believe the words she was hearing, all those years ago, she felt the possibilities before her shrink with those words, knew that her fantasies of a happy ending were just that.

And now?

Fareeha is no fool.

She is happy, yes, is hopeful, yes, is humming to herself as she holds a quince, tests its firmness, but her belief that she and her mother have a _chance_ at reconciliation, that she _might_ prove herself now, is just that, a belief.  By now, she knows better than to expect too much, even as she hopes for the best.

Probably, her mother would call her naïve, for this, for allowing herself to be drawn into a fantasy that things might, somehow, end well, for allowing herself to think that this second chance will go better than the first, and that thought tempers her, somewhat, not because it changes _Fareeha’s_ beliefs, but because she worries that her mother will hold no hope for their reconciliation, and that in and of itself may be enough to stop such an even from coming to pass. 

But still, hope Fareeha does, for the lessons she learned in the army were different from the ones her mother did.  One must _always_ have hope, for so long as a battle continues, for hopelessness is the enemy of survival.  To give up hope is to die, to allow oneself to be paralyzed by fear—or worse—and to find oneself at the wrong end of the barrel of a gun.  It was different, Fareeha imagines, from a sniper’s perch, but Fareeha herself knows that she lived only because she never stopped fighting to survive.

And that is one thing she and her mother are both good at, _fighting._ It stands to reason that they can fight for this, too, for the chance to reconcile with one another, rather than fighting against each other.  The military taught Fareeha that she could be strong, even without her mother there for her, that she could survive anything, that she is right to stand her ground; all those same things have equipped her for this.

Despite what Ana would undoubtedly think, could she know Fareeha’s mind, Fareeha’s hope now is not naïveté, but is born from the opposite.

So it is a choice she makes, to be hopeful.

Overwatch is lost to her, and that she can accept, even if it is difficult, for a surrender is a surrender, and that is what Overwatch’s remaining officers did, formally, before the United Nations.  There, she has no cause for hope, and that is what hurt her, more than anything, the powerlessness of her situation, the knowledge that there was nothing she could do, no one she could speak to, no order she could make which would salvage the situation.  For the past few weeks, she has been stuck here watching as the organization she so loved died a long, painful death, with not a thing to be done for it, nothing to ease that pain, their journey into non-existence, but now?

Now Fareeha has something to fight for, again, and with it, a purpose.

Once again, she can be redeemed in her mother’s eyes, once again she can be Ana’s daughter, once again she can prove herself worthy of helping Overwatch to save the world.

So she has hope.

She has anger, too, and fear, and suspicion, but none of those things matter so much as the hope, right now, because they are things she was already feeling, before.  They are nothing new to her, will do nothing to change her circumstances at all.  Even as she does not deny herself those feelings, she chooses not to prioritize them, not just yet.  If, later, they become more important than hope, if this strange version of her mother proves herself in some way untrustworthy, or unwilling to work with Fareeha, or dangerous—then she can feel those things.

But hope is what she needs right now, and it carries her through the checkout, and the walk back to her condo—her mother’s, again now?

Even when she passes the old woman who always glares at her, and does so particularly strongly when Fareeha brings a date home, Fareeha keeps on smiling.  She is certain that must anger the woman, along with the polite as-salaam alaikum she offers to her, broad smile on her face, as if the two of them ever got along, but she is genuinely feeling happy enough to offer the greeting to anyone she passes, today. 

Peace be upon her, and upon them all, for the chance for peace has finally returned to Fareeha’s life, in the form of her mother, alive and well, hale and whole, waiting for her in her condo, and the hope of a reconciliation with her.

Given all that Fareeha has been through, even in her short life, given all that she has seen and all that she has done, the things she has given up and the opportunities denied her, who would deny her hope?  Who would think her undeserving of it, or too naïve for feeling such?  Who would try to take that hope from her?

No one.

No one, save for her mother, and her mother would succeed, every time.

When Fareeha opens the condo door, her mother is not waiting on the other side, nor is she in the bedroom, the bathroom, the kitchen, the study.  She is nowhere to be seen, and indeed there is no sign she was ever there at all.

Never clumsy, Fareeha nonetheless drops the bags at her feet when she realizes, when she makes her way to the final room, her old nursery, and finds it undisturbed.  There is no one here—no one and nothing.  When she looks, there is no switch beneath her old changing table, not when she feels blindly underneath it nor when she wrenches it to the side, toppling it on top of her groceries.  There is nothing beneath the crib, either, or the rocking chair, or the storage bins, no sign her mother ever hid anything here.  She tears the room apart and there is nothing, nothing, nothing.  And no Ana, either.

Was she here at all?  Was there anyone in that room with her, in the temple, or was it all some fever dream?  Did she conjure up a mother, like she conjured up hope, from nothing, undeserved? 

Or is her mother alive, out there, having left her again?

It must be the latter, it must be, for the pounding in the front of Fareeha’s head has returned, just behind her eyes, accompanying the strange drowsiness of earlier and she _ought_ to be furious, ought to be frantic, wondering if her mother made it out safe, ought to feel betrayed and suspicious and disheartened but all she feels, then, is _sick._

She does not bother to clean, leaves the room, painted sky blue, all a mess, for she needs to escape, breath coming in pants, stomach roiling, head reeling.  She feels ill—is going to be?  _Bathroom_ , she thinks, but instead she lurches over to the kitchen sink, closer by, and vomits into it.  If she looked up, as she retched, she would see only the curtains covering the window, a bright, sunshiny yellow, and the sun bright even through them.

She does not look, though, eyes clenched shut to stop what she is sure would be tears, if she would let herself cry them.

Stupid, she thinks, _stupid, stupid, stupid._

Stupid to trust her mother, to think that the dead could—would—come back, and that Overwatch, a lost battle, would somehow be winnable again.

Hope is dangerous, her mother always cautioned her, and it was—is again.  Hoping has hurt her far more in one morning than days of mourning could.

Gently as she can, she sinks to the floor, allows her face to press against the cool tile of her kitchen, and to draw deeper breaths.  Or, she tries breathing deeply.  What comes out is a sob, choked and sharp, and another after that, another, until she has to slow down, again, lest she be sick.

Again, her mother left her, again, she is alone, but this time it is all the worse for knowing that Ana did so willingly.  Foolish of her to think that things would go any differently, foolish of her to think that her mother might have changed, just because she once said she was sorry.

Ana will never change.  Always, she will do what she believes is best, will take what she thinks is best for the world and that—that is not Fareeha.  It never has been.

It is fine, or ought to be.  Years ago, Fareeha thought she came to terms with the idea of her mother choosing the world over her.  Of all the things to be left behind for, it is the best, but somehow those feelings are raw again, now, the same ones she felt as a tiny child, and it is all the worse for that, for she feels immature, even as she sobs, thinks herself childish for daring to feel anything of the sort.

Maybe she is, but right now, Fareeha does not care, does not have it in her to take with grace the knowledge that she is losing her mother _again,_ that her mother will always choose something greater over her.  It is all well and good to know intellectually that if Fareeha would truly be a hindrance, it is the right thing Ana does, leaving her behind, but emotionally?  That is another matter.

A lifetime of contenting herself with being second best to the world comes crashing down in that shiny yellow kitchen, all at once, and Fareeha cries until she feels hoarse, and can cry no longer.  Long ago, she thought she had no tears left to shed for her mother, and even now, it is a desperate, dry sort of crying she does, and rawer for it.

When she is done, and her sobbing has subsided, when she feels nothing anymore but resignation, again, that for the good of everyone her needs must come second, Fareeha has no energy left in her, no will to fight, or hope to fight with.  Like so many soldiers before her she lies down where she is and simply waits for the inevitable.

In her case, at least, the inevitable is simply a less permanent sort of sleep than the others await but the defeat—it feels the same.

At first, Fareeha’s sleep is dreamless, is something deep, and dark, and empty, borne of exhaustion and a lack of will, of _desire_ to dream.  All she wants is peace, and in that moment she can only have it if she is not conscious of anything, awake or asleep.

Peace, what a strange impossible thing.  She was born into a world on the brink of war, and has never known anything else.  Foolish of her to think she could escape it, even in dreams. 

It follows her here, gunfire, a battlefield—all sand.  Nothing around her but the gold of the desert, and the sky, too, is yellow, signaling an oncoming storm.  She needs shelter, she knows, if she is going to survive the dust storm, but there is nothing.  She is alone, all alone, and this should be better, it should, should be safer, because there is no one here to hurt her, but where can she find shelter?  Where can she find protection?

The wind is picking up, and she sees the storm drawing near her, on the horizon, a massive wall of sand bearing down upon her, taller than buildings.  If there were a city here, she knows it would swallow it, just as it will swallow her.

But what can she do?  She is alone, and with no shelter, all there is for her is to stand and face it, to allow herself to be consumed.  Amaris are not cowards, to back down from fights, to run from their deaths, if this will be the end of her then she will watch as it comes.  If no one will bear witness to her passing, she will bear witness for herself.

But then a sound, in the distance “ _Fareeha!_ ” her name, and frantic.

With the wind, and the shapes of the dunes it is hard to know where the voice comes from.  She turns right, then left, sees nothing, runs up a dune and—

“Fareeha!”

A camel?  She thought they were extinct, but there it is, at the bottom of the dune, and it is close enough that she can reach it, if she runs, before the storm reaches her.

“Fareeha!” it says again, in her mother’s voice, and she tumbles towards it, slipping down the dune, moving faster, faster, as the storm bears down, blotting out the sun entirely.

“Fareeha,” and again, “Fareeha,” as it splits itself open, from the base of its long neck to its tail, and she wants to scream, seeing such an innocent slaughtered, knowing that there were no camels left anymore and this, the last, has flayed itself for her, but she knows she cannot.  If she wants to live, she has to climb inside, has to push herself into the flesh of it, all sticky and warm and revolting, and she does, Allah forgive her she _does_ and—

“Fareeha, wake up!” her mother insists, and Fareeha does, tries to jolt but the arms around her are too strong, keep her pinned down.  “Gently,” her mother insists, firm tone in contrast with her words, “You’ve been sick.”

She _has_ been, and her head is still fuzzy from sleep but she is suddenly overwhelmed by it, the smell nearby and the taste in her mouth, and she gags.

“None of that,” her mother tells her, pulls a water bottle from somewhere on her person and shoves it towards Fareeha’s mouth, “You need to drink.”

“Sorry,” Fareeha mumbles, almost on instinct, and there is a moment of peace before suddenly she becomes aware, again, of what happened, why she was on the floor on the first place.

This time, her mother is not strong enough to hold her down, and Fareeha tears herself out of that grip, water falling to the floor as she twists out of her mother’s arms and upright, stance prepared for a fight, even if she only intends for this to be a verbal one, “You _left!_ ” she accuses.  It might have more impact if she were not spitting water as she says it, and did not still sound hoarse from sleep, and congested from having cried, but there is force behind her words, now, that she lacked earlier.

“You told me to,” her mother says, in the sort of calm way which Fareeha knows portends trouble.  Ana only responds so calmly to accusation when she believes that she has something greater to be concerned with.

Whatever _that_ is, it must be terrible, and yet Fareeha does not allow herself to be distracted, now, is too caught on the injustice of all this, her mother having left her to think that she died, having _abandoned_ her, and now having the audacity to return to Fareeha’s life, on her own schedule, to make her hope and to tear it away, only to come back again, treating her so gently, as if Fareeha were still the child Ana had abandoned the first time.  It is not right, it is not just, and all of Fareeha’s grief from earlier is anger again.

“Don’t be obtuse!” she accuses, “You know very well I don’t mean this morning.”

For a moment, she feels strong, the drive for _retribution_ and _justice_ making her larger than she is, bolstering her, and she thinks that her mother deserves to feel just as small and broken as she did only a few hours earlier, deserves to know what it is to feel that the most important person in one’s life hates them, that one has no _value_ to them, but then Ana jerks back, shrinks in on herself in reaction to the words, and Fareeha realizes how very much smaller her mother is than herself, these days, and how, despite the fact that she is still strong, age has sapped her, somewhat.

“I couldn’t help that,” her mother answers, and she sounds proud as ever, but something in the way her eyes do not meet Fareeha’s reveals a well hidden pain.  “If I could’ve been here—”

“ _You let me think you died!_ ” Fareeha is not about to let Ana take her anger from her, not now, not about to let her speak sweetly just because her mother might want her to, or _need_ her to.  Right now, her own pain is a greater concern than anyone else’s, and she will not stifle it because it makes Ana uncomfortable.

Silence, then, no argument from her mother, no attempt to defend herself, to apologize for what it was she did, no excuse.  It is a good thing, for Fareeha could stomach none of that now, despite the intent.  Nothing can make up for that, no words, no reasons.  No apology could possibly be sufficient, to cover all that Fareeha has gone through.

Perhaps later, she will want one.  Perhaps later, she will be ready to accept one.  But now?  Her heart pumps too quickly and the blood in the small veins beneath the surface of her skin feels far, far too hot for her to forgive anything, and she knows, she _knows_ that none will ever undo the hurt she is feeling, even if it may go some way towards demonstrating remorse on her mother’s part.

The initial giddiness of the impossible having happened is gone from Fareeha, and what is left?  Not her mother, reappearing magically before her in a temple to the god of the dead; in fact, such a thing never truly happened.  There was no miracle, only this, a farce.  An old woman somehow suddenly so much smaller than herself having the audacity to return to Fareeha’s life, when she is already at the lowest, and to put her own needs and wants first.

In the daylight, it is so much easier to see her mother clearly, to see the new lines on her face and the way her hair has begun to grey ever faster, and a part of Fareeha thinks _Good._ Her mother does not deserve to have the sort of easy life that lets one age gracefully, not now, not when she is stealing Fareeha’s youth from her too.

For that is what she has done.  So much of Fareeha’s twenties has been spent unhappily, whether it was because her mother and she were fighting, or because they were not even talking, or because Ana had died, and Overwatch gone after her, and to Fareeha it feels right, that Ana should no longer look so young as did, even two years ago at her death.  Fareeha certainly does not feel as young as she _herself_ is.

What she sees now is not the impossible specter of hope from the night before, not the chance for reconciliation, but instead a sight that disgusts her; not her mother, but her own reaction to her.  For all that Fareeha knows she has a right to be unhappy, she knows this response is not the best one, and she feels _weak_ knowing that she was sick, and for what reason?  Why allow herself to be so affected by someone who was barely a ghost in her life in the first place?

And she is ashamed, too, by how it is her mother makes her feel in this moment, not her weakness at the loss but her disgust at her mother’s return.  If she were a better daughter, a better person, she thinks she would still be grateful, on some level, to have her mother returned to her.  Growing up during the Crisis, she has known many orphans, and she ought to count herself lucky not to be among them, especially with how much time her mother spent on the front lines.  Surely any one of those people, many of them dear friends, would want nothing more than to be in Fareeha’s place.  And what does she do, now that she has this, their impossible dream?  She gets angry.  She yells.  She wants to cry.  She thinks she hates her mother, _hates_ her, for what she made Fareeha go through.

It is not right, she feels, to be so ungrateful, not right to act like this when she is lucky to have even what she does.

Yet, she is not going to pretend to be happy, is not going to act like everything is suddenly okay, now that Ana is back, because it _is not_ , and Fareeha cannot be dishonest.  Lying to Saleh to cover for her mother was hard enough, and Ana knows her far better, would be able to sense any deceit.

Throughout all this, this turmoil that Fareeha is feeling, the rushes of anger, disgust, guilt and shame, Ana says nothing.  Still she is seated on the ground where she had been holding Fareeha, and still she looks up at her daughter, light from the window filtering through the curtain and falling golden against her face, the clear beam between the curtain and the sill landing squarely on her tattoo.

An Udjat, for protection. 

Protecting whom?

Ana styled herself as a protector, always, but whom was she protecting, really?  Not Fareeha.

For a moment, Fareeha dares allow herself to think that selfish thought, to revel in it, as much as she knows she ought to have outgrown such selfishness years ago.  It is befitting of someone a decade younger, yet in the moment it _feels_ true, that Ana sacrificed her own daughter to pursue her goals.

And if she did?

Well, there is the problem with such thinking, and why Fareeha feels always so guilty: if that is the case, can she blame Ana?  Are her feelings truly more important than the safety of the world?  No, and no again.

So she swallows them, swallows the disgust, the guilt, the bile with it, pushes them back down inside of herself, to the darkest parts where such thoughts belong.  She must not think such things, it is not right.  Of course, it is better that she suffers than others be made to, in her place.  Her feelings are not, will never be, more significant than the lives of others.

She will not allow herself to think these things again. She is better than this.  What it is she feels does not matter, never has, given the stakes, and if she were a better person she would behave as if it did, would never have thought these things at all.

Better, she will have to do and be better. 

Still, her mother does not speak.  It makes sense; Ana has spent enough time in the field outlasting her opponents, waiting and waiting and waiting for something that may never come, just in case, and never once dropping her guard in that time.

Is that how she sees Fareeha now?  An enemy, a potential target? 

Surely not. 

But her waiting is not born of a need to think; if there is anything Fareeha does know for certain about her mother, even after so much time apart, it is that her decisions are made before most people would realize there was ever a choice to begin with.  Her silence is conscious.

Maybe, a slightly more charitable part of Fareeha thinks, Ana is simply giving her _time._ After all, if her mother were going to go in for the kill, either literally or metaphorically, she could very well have in the past few minutes.  Instead she has been silent, and still—and she did take care of her, held her so gently as she insisted that she drink.

Her mother is still her mother, no matter how much damage she has inadvertently done Fareeha, by her dying.  Even at the times they have fought the worst, her mother has expressed a desire to take care of her, and that shows again, now, in its own way, in her allowing Fareeha this time, this space.

It is not enough, of course, is not enough for Fareeha to recover entirely, because her mother’s eyes are still on her, and Fareeha has always thought that Ana could see into her mind, could read the worst of her thoughts, and judged her by them.

Who would _not_ judge Fareeha, for being so selfish as she is?

But she needs to be selfish, sometimes, she does.  For if she is not, then how is she going to ever feel anything?  So many of her emotions surrounding her mother, and the perceived abandonment by such, are not the kind of things a good person would ever feel—yet she cannot _never_ feel them, she has tried.

When she does, they explode outwards, are words than ever, because she cannot control what she will feel, and when, how all that anger and bitterness and loneliness will express itself, and that is no good either.  Fareeha does not want to feel like a danger to anyone around her, like a landmine, just waiting for someone, _anyone_ , to put pressure on her just wrong, and she is better about it, now, than she was in her youth, has come a long way in the decade it has been since she was seventeen, has n to channel her emotions and to know which of them are the ones that are appropriately directed, and which are not.  But she cannot do so if she stifles them entirely, much as she hates acknowledging that they exist.

Now is not the time, however, for feeling such things, not while her mother is here, not while she feels so raw and exposed, not when the air around her is thick with heat and still foul with the scent of her having been sick, not when her mother’s cybernetic eye can see her unravel in real time, not when—

“Fareeha,” her mother says, finally, breaking her silence just as things seem to near a boiling point.  “I _did_ die.”

What?

To this, Fareeha has no response—or the better part of her does not.  The part she would rather keep locked away, except for when she is all alone, scoffs, “Obviously not.”

Her mother is here; the dead cannot talk.

“I did,” Ana says, again.  “I stayed too long behind enemy lines, and I paid the price.”  There is something oddly detached about her mother’s voice, as if she were recounting the facts of a historical event, as if she had only read the words in some report and not lived the experience herself, but there is a hauntedness to her eyes as she says _I did_ that makes it real.  No amount of detachment from events themselves can remove the fear she clearly feels, saying as much.

“I’m not crazy,” Fareeha says, although she feels like it, sometimes, feels like she is just a half second out of time with the rest of the world, that her feelings, her thoughts, her experiences do not quite mesh with the reality everyone else is living in.  “And I’m talking to you.  So you must be alive.”

“I am,” Ana agrees, standing at last, “But I died.”  She grabs the counter as she does so, pulling herself up slowly, the slowness with which she moves an affectation, Fareeha thinks.  Her mother could have stood much faster, more fluidly, but this way she seems far less threatening. 

Is the act for her benefit, or Fareeha’s?

“Bullshit,” Fareeha tells her, bluntly, crosses her arms and declines to help her mother up.  Ana can stand well enough on her own two feet.  “What really happened?”

“I died,” her mother insists, again.  “I’m here, now, but I wasn’t then.  The Widowmaker shot, me, I _lost_.”  The way she says lost is almost incredulous, as if Ana herself, who was there, cannot believe that such a thing would come to pass.  Yet, if she is not lying, it did.

Here is the problem: Fareeha’s honesty was inherited from her father.  Her mother is an excellent liar, always has been, and while she has rarely had cause to lie to her daughter, there is no way Fareeha can know if she is being told the truth or not, no way she can tell if everything her mother is saying to her now is true or all just some elaborate fabrication.  Every bit of emotion might be an act.

But Fareeha’s gut tells her this is true.  Even Ana’s lies have always been tinged by her pride, have not allowed her to seem vulnerable in the way she does now.  There is pain in those words, and fear, too, _I lost_. 

In a role like Ana’s, losing is certain death.  For snipers, there is little hope that a shot will be non-fatal.  Yet here Ana stands before her, and Fareeha realizes suddenly, that she bares no scars.

“Where were you shot?” Fareeha asks, a sudden suspicion creeping in.  There should be _something_ , if her mother is telling the truth, should be some evidence on her body of an injury—but even then, Fareeha is not sure that it makes sense.  It would have had to have been a body shot, not to have shown on her face, and yet, were that so, her mother would have surely been able to make the shot, would have still found a way if not to win then at least to have drawn, and she says that she _died._

Surely, there must be some scar that—

“Near my heart,” her mother tells her, “An artery.  I should have bled out—or I did, maybe—but the bullet hit a biotic canister I was carrying, too.”

Would that work?  Fareeha does not know enough about nanites to know the full extent of their capabilities.  It sounds right, but “Show me,” she demands, “I want to see the scar.”

She needs proof, if she is going to put this matter to rest.

For the first time in her life, Fareeha sees her mother’s hands shake as they move to remove her outer coat, and then to pull up her shirt.  As a sniper, Ana has always needed to be steady and so to see her falter now—Fareeha almost bids her stop.  _Almost_.  But still, she needs to know, forces herself to watch this as her mother pulls down the top of her bra just enough to expose a scar, ugly, and obviously poorly treated, for her to inspect.

Her mother does not say anything as she does it, but her posture is defiant, the way a wounded animal puffs up when cornered.  _Say something,_ she seems to scream, _I dare you._

Of course, there is nothing to say.  The scar is there, just as her mother said it would be, and Fareeha could press, could ask to touch or lean closer to inspect it, to ensure that it is real and not part of some elaborate ruse, but why?  Suddenly, she feels terrible for even asking, despite knowing she would have been remiss not to.

Her mother has a way of making her feel like that.

Fareeha looks away.  It is always her who loses these little battles of will.  She will not press, will not give her mother the opportunity to say _I told you so_ , either with her words or her actions.

“I’m sorry,” says she, not certain for what.  For doubting her mother?  For being prudent, and verifying her story?  For being righteously angry that her mother left, before she knew the reason why?  All of these things, her mother would surely understand, if Fareeha wanted to give voice to them.

“Don’t be,” her mother says, with surprising gentleness, “You’ve had a hard day.”

“I have,” Fareeha admits, because she feels that she at least owes her mother honesty now.  “This is… a lot to take in.” 

“I’m sure it is,” her mother reassures her, “Now why don’t you go lie down in a real bed and sleep properly.  I’ll clean this up.”

The sink—still unwashed from when Fareeha was sick in it earlier.  She wants to insist that no, she can handle it, but her mother already has the water on before Fareeha can insist, and is rummaging beneath the sink for cleaning supplies. 

She finds them, of course, because this was her apartment before it was Fareeha’s, and despite some minor cosmetic changes, updating rich dark colors and accents to lighter yellows and blues, Fareeha has mostly kept the layout the same.  They think in similar enough ways that what seems a logical order to things to Ana is the same to Fareeha.

And that always has been the problem, has it not?  That similarity.  The reason why they cannot abide by one another, why they always say exactly what it is that will hurt the other most—it is because they are so alike that they know what to say.

In another life, maybe, they would have used that knowledge more gently.  Not this one, though.  Theirs is instead the life where the love they feel for one another has only brought them pain.

“Why are you still standing there?” her mother asks her, “Go lie down!”  She makes a shooing motion with her hands, covered now in large rubber gloves.  _Yalla,_ she says, as if they were any other mother and daughter, and this were some ordinary scenario and not—whatever this is. 

Of course, their lives have never been normal, and their relationship never typical, but Ana is still every inch her mother, always has been, and it almost makes Fareeha laugh, how _typical_ such behavior is, when the circumstances are anything but.  Her mother, back from the dead, the future of the world on the line, the two of them breaking international law by planning to engaged in Overwatch-related activities.

Speaking of which, “Don’t we have more important things to be doing?”  Fareeha asks, because it dawns on her suddenly that if this is real, if her mother was telling the truth, then something is wrong with the Anubis God Program, and if it breaks containment, that could mean another Crisis, and the end to all humanity, without Overwatch around anymore to curtail such a thing.

Unless, of course, they can prevent that from happening, can ensure that things stay contained.

“Cleanliness _is_ important, Fareeha,” her mother chides her, like a thousand times before, “Unsanitary conditions are bad for your health,” as if her health would matter, should their city become ground zero for another Omnic Crisis. 

“The world might be ending, Mum.”

“Isn’t it always?” Ana asks her, sounding terribly unconcerned given the stakes, but Fareeha supposes that she does have a point, there.  With Overwatch, missions were always a matter of life and death for thousands, millions, billions of people.  Nothing they did was ever small.  This kind of pressure must be familiar, by now.  “We have a week and a half.  It’s under control.”

“We don’t even have a _plan_ ,” Fareeha is having a much harder time than Ana with accepting that things are going to work out, and the strain in her voice reveals as much.  While her job at Helix is important, and she did good work in the army, this is still a level of danger that she is unaccustomed to.

“I do,” Ana says, matter of factly, not even glancing up from the sink she is scrubbing.  “And the first step is ensuring that you’ve rested up well enough to be useful.  Go sleep.”

Fareeha wants to protest, to say that she feels well enough to at least _discuss_ things, but there is no use in arguing with her mother when she is like this, so insistent—is little enough use in arguing with her mother ever, but it is made more difficult when her mother is _mothering_ her.  It happens rarely enough, but for all her shortcomings, Ana is every inch as confident in the role of a mother as she is a military commander, with the added advantage of actually being able to pull rank on Fareeha in such a context, and so when her mother insists on something such as this, Fareeha obeys.  Arguing will only prolong the issue, and besides, she does not know if her mother has any more of the stuff which incapacitated her earlier.

The last thing she needs is to be shot by that, again.  She is half convinced that whatever it was is to blame for her having been ill earlier, even more than her emotions at the time.

Still, she cannot bring herself to leave, to look away from her mother, and she does not know why.  Her feet are stuck, as if she had stepped in clay without realizing, and let it harden around her.  Even though she thinks she _ought_ to go, she knows she could not if she wanted to.  Something keeps her here.

“I can’t,” says she, and nothing more, for she does not know how to put it to words.

“Are the nightmares common?” her mother is done cleaning the sink, now is stripping off the gloves and washing her hands thoroughly, ever intense eyes scrutinizing Fareeha’s face as if searching for any kind of exhaustion.  “If they are, I—”

“No,” Fareeha says, “It’s not sleep that’s the problem.”  If anything, she thinks she sleeps too much, lately, has been doing it to avoid thinking, or hearing anyone say anything, to give herself anything to do but to be consumed further by Overwatch’s fall, because if she were awake too often to dwell on it then it would surely drown her.  “I just—” Just what?  Just cannot will herself to move, to look away because, if she does, even for a moment, then—

“I won’t disappear again,” her mother tells her, “If that’s what you’re worried about.”

And Fareeha realizes it _is._ After this morning—she cannot lose her mother yet again.  Even just thinking that she had, that her mother had left after their encounter at the temple and had no intention to return, that was enough to make Fareeha ill, to put her in a position where she felt, suddenly, worse than she had in years, less in control and more weak, more childish, and that is not even taking into consideration how she handled her mother’s abrupt return.  To do that again any time soon would surely be too much for Fareeha.

“How can I know?” she asks, and hates the way her voice breaks.  She sounds like she is begging, and maybe she is.  Maybe this is all it takes, to reduce her again to the little girl she once was, clutching at her mother’s pants and begging her not to go back to war, not to leave Fareeha behind, not again.

She hates that.  Hates how small this all makes her feel, how insignificant.  She is _not_ that girl any longer, has not been for years.  The woman Fareeha is now does not need her mother, nor her mother’s approval, needs only to know for herself that she is doing the right thing, that she is honoring her mother’s _legacy_ , and not her wishes.  She is proud, and strong, and not at _all_ going to beg that—

“I never wanted to leave you,” her mother tells her, one clean and dry hand reaching up to cup her cheek as her mother steps closer to her, eyes going soft in a way Fareeha has not seen in years.  “You must know that.  I _had_ to.”

“And this morning?” Fareeha asks her.  Where was she?  What was so important that kept her away for so long.

“Something came up,” and Ana must know from the look on Fareeha’s face that her explanation is not good enough, because she rather uncharacteristically chooses to elaborate, looking away as she does so, “I’ve been in hiding, off the grid.  I knew Jack had died but—” a pause, a steading breath, she meets Fareeha’s eyes again, “I knew already,” says she, “But it was different to hear other people _talking_ about it.”

“It’s more real,” Fareeha says, thinking not of Jack but of her mother, of Overwatch, of her own experiences of what should have been her private grief turned into public gossip.  It is a pain she knows all too well.

“Yes,” her mother says, sounding rather relieved not to have to elaborate.  “I just needed time.”

“I understand,” Fareeha says, and wishes she had something more comforting to say, wishes her mother were anyone _but_ the woman she is, for she has always seemed so formidable to Fareeha that it is painful to see her so vulnerable, now, and impossible to know how best to comfort her.

“It won’t happen again,” her mother reassures her, and just like that, the moment is over.  It is not a platitude, but a vow, and her mother closes off, again, draws in on herself and withdraws her hand, stands again with her shoulders square, proper military posture.

“Good,” Fareeha says, and to anyone else, such a response would be callous, but this is how her mother raised her, is what they both are more comfortable with, not tenderness but military professionalism. 

Is it healthy?  Perhaps not, but it is easier for both of them, now, not to be vulnerable again just yet, not to feel _weak._ Much to her father’s vexation, they truly are happier this way.

“You’ll sleep, then?” her mother asks, and Fareeha knows what it is she really means, knows that this is instead asking if Fareeha is reassured, if she feels confident again in the knowledge that her mother will not be leaving her, and is comfortable enough to go to sleep, certain that Ana will be there when she wakes.  The real question is, _Was that enough, for you?  Do you need more from me?_

Fareeha is thankful that the question was asked indirectly, it spares her the trouble of having to put to words her emotions, having to acknowledge what she is feeling at all.  She really would rather that portion of the conversation were done with, and is grateful to her mother for having given her the out.

“I will,” Fareeha promises, and then, remembering that they are in the kitchen, and that her mother is probably not on the same nocturnal schedule as she, “There should be leftovers in the fridge.  I was going to make breakfast, but—”

“I promise not to cook anything,” her mother says, cybernetic eye rolling just a bit _too_ quickly to be an entirely natural movement.  “Contrary to what you and your father believe, I _can_ feed myself without burning anything down.”

“Hmm,” Fareeha says, and she might argue this point, might remind Ana that this is _her_ kitchen now, and she does not want to go through the trouble of replacing things just because her mother thought she could safely attempt shakshouka, but now that she is more relaxed her fatigue is catching up with her rather quickly, and she finds that she does not really have the energy or strong inclination to tease her mother.  There will be more opportunities to do so in the future, many of them.

“Go sleep,” her mother insists again, apparently noting Fareeha’s relatively tame response, “You need it.”

And she does.  For all of her shortcomings, this sort of mothering—identifying other’s basic needs, and ensuring they are met—Ana has always been very good at.

So Fareeha goes, walks from the kitchen, through the living area, and into the bedroom. Once in there, she briefly considers a shower, before deciding that it can wait until she has rested, and it will not matter if she gets her sheets a bit dirtier than usual, as she planned on washing them this evening anyway.  Her clothes she strips as carefully as ever, ignoring for the time being her own fatigue in favor of habit, folding each article carefully as she places it into her mostly full laundry bin.  Unlike most people, Fareeha is not the sort to leave any problem for later, no matter how small, be it laundry on the floor or dishes in the sink.  Being prudent now will only save her trouble later.

Since she has company, and is aware that the only restroom is through her bedroom, Fareeha also takes the additional step of putting on pyjamas, rather than simply sleeping in the nude.  They are not the most comfortable, in this heat, but the trouble of wearing them is certainly lesser than the embarrassment that she would feel should her mother happen to see her unclothed.  As used as she is to others seeing her body from her time in the military, certain exceptions must be made for one’s mother.

Having dressed for bed, and after using the toilet and brushing her teeth, Fareeha is more than ready to simply fall asleep.  She lies down in the bed, and thinks that it will come to her easily, that she will simply feel her head hit the pillow, and then nothing more.

Instead, Fareeha is aware suddenly of how different her condo feels, now, knowing that her mother is alive and inside it.  She lies in her bed which lately has felt too large, a world in and of itself, her bedroom an island when she is laying in the sunbeams beneath her window, hearing the voices drift in from the sea of people outside, in their other, better world, lives going on without her.

Today, that feeling is replaced; for all that the hubbub is the same as ever, now Fareeha knows that when they talk about Overwatch being over and done with, it is not that their world is one she cannot access, that their lives are totally alien compared to her own, and she lesser for it.  Instead, it does not bother her so much, what they are thinking and what they are saying, for it is now _her_ with the secret, her who knows and feels something the rest of the world cannot.  No longer is she somehow something slightly less than human, not capable of accessing the full range of emotions the rest of them do, or feeling the way that she ought to feel.  _They_ are the ones outside, now, for Overwatch still exists, not only in Fareeha’s heart but in reality, and those others can talk all they want about its demise, but Fareeha knows better.  Overwatch is real, and she is joining them.

If she were younger, more naïve, that statement might fill her with giddiness, for it is a dream come true, helping Overwatch, is a realization of all that she has worked towards, in a way that she only recently had come to accept would be _impossible._  

Maybe, had she not had the sudden realization that her mother was gone, again, only a few hours before, that statement might make Fareeha feel hopeful, might make her think some foolish thought about how _nothing_ is impossible, but such is not the case.  She knows, even now, that although she is extraordinarily lucky to have been granted this second chance, it is not perfect, it has not undone—cannot undo—the pain of the past.  There are things which are impossible, and ever truly understanding why her mother left, why she allowed Fareeha to think her dead, may be one of them.

Yes, she has accepted that her mother told her the truth, yes, she has accepted that her mother did not want her to feel abandoned, would not have chosen it under other circumstances, and yes, she has accepted that what happened this morning was not as it seemed, but none of that undoes the pain of her mother having not told her she was alive, none of that undoes the months Fareeha spent feeling as if she were only going through the motions of her life, the only real thing being the pain she felt, but was powerless to express in front of anyone else.

If your mother dies a hero, gives her life to save others, you cannot mourn her, because you have to be brave, to be strong, like they tell you she would have wanted, and you cannot acknowledge that your relationship was complicated, for that should not matter, now, her good character having been forever cemented by virtue of her death.  And if she dies a disgraced hero, the public having turned their backs and decided that all she did for them was for naught, then mourning is doubly unacceptable, because the public believes that it was a waste, her death, that she ought not to have been where she was in the first place, and that is even harder to hear.  To speak of the complexities of your relationship with your mother with _those_ people would be even worse, for they will twist all of it to suit a narrative which paints her in the worst light possible.

No matter what Fareeha felt in those days between Ana’s death and now, she could not speak about it, had to carry inside her all of that pain, that anger, that guilt, and now?

It is not gone, entirely, never will be.  Even as some of the pain is eased by her mother returning, and the anger and guilt with it, the memories remain.  Come what may, Fareeha will always, now, be a woman who experienced such a thing, who felt so much so strongly and could not express any of it, and who felt so completely isolated from the world around her.

No apology from Ana will fix that.  It can help, and in time, Fareeha thinks, she might be able to forgive her mother, but that will not change the past.  For now, Fareeha thinks it is enough that her mother is offering her some explanation, and she is beginning to feel as if she understands that decision.  If, after her near death, Overwatch told her to remain dead, if it was an _order—_

_—_ Well, Fareeha herself still might not follow such an order, but she supposes that she can almost understand why her mother would, if she thought it meant preserving Overwatch after they were shut down, as she said.  For nearly thirty years, Ana has given herself to Overwatch, has followed every order.  Fareeha might not be able to forgive her, for having not thought of what this would do to her daughter, but she can, at the very least, understand where her mother is coming from.

Maybe one day that understanding will be enough, and her relationship with her mother, her thoughts of Overwatch, will no longer be tinged with pain.

It is not hope that she feels, now, not again, and she suspects she will not allow it to stir within her for some time, will push it down for fear of something happening again, but it is something close to it.

What that good future might look like, Fareeha does not know, but the thought is warm enough to bring her peace, and cool enough that she feels calm, and at last sleeps.

The last thing she sees before she drifts off is the light from her window striking the family portrait she keeps beside her bed, Fareeha and her father illuminated, her mother watching over them both in shadow.

This time, she does not dream.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> translation notes:  
> salaam alaikum - a formal greeting. if ur young, and u dont say it to an old lady, its pretty rude. like its p mandatory w ppl u know  
> yalla - hurry up! having this yelled at u by a parent is a universal arab experience. probably if a stranger yelled it at me i would instinctively still respond
> 
> also, a note on the whole camel thing. camels ARE important in bedouin culture, v much so, and i think saying in bastet that theyd be replaced by robots was wild cause uhhh... no. but also fareeha is romanticizing them a bit cause thats how growing up in diaspora is, and cause she like, has never met a real camel bc theyre extinct. she has never been spit on. she doesnt Know what bastards they can be. very culturally important bastards, but bastards nonetheless.


	3. i know it was this that had to give

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i was gonna upload this like six hrs ago but then i had to arrange for an emergency stay of deportation (not for myself... work stuff... not even MY work stuff but im the most senior employee who checks slack after 5pm on a friday night). but good news on this front, at least one less person is being deported this weekend... and now i need to like go play ovw and unwind LOL. bc thats enough stress for one night

It is late afternoon when Fareeha wakes, face down in bed, mouth dry from having slept with it open.  For a moment, her waking is peaceful, or close to it, anyway, the only thought in her mind the fact that she ought to get up and have water.  She does not bask in the comfort in her bed, or enjoy the feeling of the softness of her sheets, and how well-rested she is; sometimes she does so, but her sleeping position was not quite comfortable, and so although she does not move with any particular urgency, she does not linger overlong, either. 

This lasts, perhaps, for a half a minute, before, as she is walking to the bathroom to grab a glass of water, she sees that the door to her bedroom is closed.

Fareeha _never_ sleeps with her door closed, likes the freedom of open spaces, feels trapped in enclosed ones, all too aware that if something were to go south her easiest means of escape is impeded—even if only slightly.

Fortunately, by the time that she processes what about her door being open is wrong, Fareeha remembers the events of the day previous, or, technically, earlier in this day, but having slept it feels so distant, her mother arriving suddenly in the tomb and then, again, at home.  This _does_ fill her with a sense of urgency.  Is her mother still here?  Has she left, again?  For how long, exactly, was she asleep?  If they have only a week and a half, then she cannot afford to tarry.

Or, so she thinks. 

Her mother, it seems, would tend to disagree, as when Fareeha bursts into the living room she finds her mother looking quite relaxed, reclining on the couch with a tablet in one hand and a cup of tea in the other.  One eyebrow arches in response to Fareeha’s somewhat hasty entrance, but otherwise she does not seem particularly concerned, and does not say anything except, “I take it you slept well?”

The question throws Fareeha off, so civil, and so out of place with her own current worries.  “I guess, yeah,” she answers honestly.  Her sleep could not have been too terrible, as it was quite sound, but she does not remember what it is she dreamt about, except that it unsettled her.  “Did you get any sleep?”  It has been the better part of a day since they encountered one another, and Ana does not _seem_ tired.

“I napped,” her mother sets down the tablet and sits up straighter.  “The new couch is very comfortable, it’s a good choice.”

“Thank you,” Fareeha says, again more of a reflex than because she feels it is something that they need to be discussing at the moment.  Then, before her mother can draw her into further small talk, “Shouldn’t we be more focused on the world potentially ending?”

“The world won’t end, Fareeha,” her mother chides her, “We’ll just have to deal with another Omnic Crisis.”

“Close enough,” it may be all well and good for her mother, who ended the first Crisis, to be so nonchalant about this, but Fareeha was born into a world where she never, ever knew if she was going to live another day, when the next attack was coming.  Ana, at least, had information, was an adult; her mother cannot possibly understand what it was to grow up like that, never knowing if there _would_ be a tomorrow.  It feels enough like the world ending, returning to that.  Fareeha has seen what it did to so many of her peers, how hard it is to comprehend any sort of future, to imagine being able to build a life, and she cannot imagine what an impact it would have to be returned to that environment, that powerlessness.  “It’s certainly a greater priority than my having redecorated.”

“I suppose so,” her mother concedes, “But I’ve been working on a solution while you slept, and being polite never hurt anyone.”

Fareeha can think of a number of people who have, in fact, been hurt by having been polite, a number of situations in which abiding by the rules of society has ended in pain, but this is not the sort of thing she can argue with her mother.  After all, Ana _knows_ all of those things, and she certainly does not mean to apply that statement to any of those exceptions.  For Fareeha to point it out would be petty, and pointless, would put Ana on her guard and likely end in another fight for the both of them.

“Sorry,” Fareeha says, instead of any of the things she wants to say, swallows her pride if only for the sake of expedience.  They will more quickly address her concerns if they do not waste time in arguing about nothing.  “So what’s the plan?”

“We can discuss that over dinner,” her mother tells her.

“You didn’t cook anything, did you?”  Fareeha hopes she does not sound as nervous as she feels, but she _just_ got around to replacing the oven, and she does not want for it to be damaged already.

“Not this time,” her mother tells her, with the slightly affronted air of a proud person who has resigned themself to the fact that they are bad at something, but is not fond of others reminding them.  “But I did see leftovers in your fridge, when I was putting away your groceries.  We can eat them.”

Of course.  Fareeha forgot her morning shopping, in the aftermath of discovering that her mother was not present, and it _did_ need to be put away, lest it spoil.  She ought to thank her mother, to be grateful for the fact that the work of cleaning up has been done for her, and she _is_ , but—

“I couldn’t find the switch,” says she, instead, remembering suddenly.

“Hmm?”

“The switch,” she repeats, moving around to the end of the couch opposite Ana, “You said there was one, when we were in the temple.  But I looked and there wasn’t anything under the changing table, or anywhere else in the nursery.”

“Oh,” says her mother, “I must have misremembered.”

“Bullshit,” Fareeha does not believe that for a second.  Her mother is sharp as anyone, and would not forget something like that.  “Why did you really say that?  To distract me?”  From what Ana would have been distracting her, Fareeha does not know, for she cannot remember, now, what it was she asked before Ana told her about the switch, but there must have been something.

“Calm down,” her mother says, in that annoyingly patronizing way only mothers can, as if Fareeha were still some unreasonable toddler.  “It must’ve been in your room in Canada, and I got the confused.  It’s been thirty years.  No one’s memory is perfect.”

Fareeha does not believe that, not at all.  While it may be true that no one has a _perfect_ memory, when it comes to things like caches, and weaponry, her mother never seems to forget anything. 

But can she prove that?  No, not yet.  Better not to press, now, if Ana is unwilling to give any ground.  She can just call her father, later, and ask him to verify.  _Then_ her mother will be caught in the lie, and have to explain herself, will not be able to make any sort of excuse.

Better to wait until success is guaranteed, her mother taught her that.

Of course, Ana was talking about killing people, about waiting until one had the perfect shot to strike someone dead, rather than risking their survival, but the same principle can be applied to many things, Fareeha thinks.

“Alright,” says she, and she knows she does not quite sell her agreement, that Ana can tell she still has doubts, but her mother seems happy enough to be getting her way, something that, in recent years, has been a rare thing, when the two of them argue, that she does not question it.  “Let’s eat.”

There is pasta, and a white sauce, and a few raw meats she can quickly simmer to eat on top of the pasta in order to vary the meal, somewhat.  Because she is often too tired to cook daily, and because it is the most efficient use of ingredients, given the bulk in which they are sold, Fareeha usually cooks one meal to eat over the course of the week, reheating it as necessary, changing only slightly the spices on top of the dish or a few quick sides to accompany it. 

Her mother being here complicates this, somewhat, as she now is going to have to feed two people, although her mother eats less than she, and so her work will not _quite_ be doubled.  Somehow, she very much doubts Ana is going to pitch in to help with the grocery bill, and that would be a pain, were it not for the fact that she is quite comfortable, financially, due to her inheritance. 

Speaking of which, “Where are you living these days?” she asks her mother, raises her voice slightly so she can be heard even as she bends into the fridge to pull out a chicken breast. 

Overwatch used to cover her mother’s housing, and her food, and most of her clothing, too, given how often her mother was in uniform, and she cannot imagine they are doing any of that now, given their defunct status, and they _certainly_ are not paying her.  Fareeha cannot imagine her mother is living off of savings, either, given the sum that she inherited; it must have been most of Ana’s money, although neither she nor her father knew her mother’s exact salary, something which caused them quite a bit of trouble when attempting to fill out paperwork following her ‘death.’

“Here and there,” her mother says, noncommittally, and Fareeha nearly drops the sauce.

“You’re _homeless_?”  Ana should have come to her sooner.  No matter how angry they were at one another when they parted ways, no matter how difficult their relationship maybe even now, her mother must surely have known that Fareeha would not have wanted her living on the street, would have wanted her to be _safe_. 

“Don’t be ridiculous,” her mother says, “I’ve been travelling.  Monitoring all the God Programs keeps me from staying in one place for too long.”

Oh.  That makes more sense, Fareeha supposes, than what she assumed, but it still sounds as if her mother does not have a fixed address, which _is_ a worry, nonetheless, because, “When this is over, and you leave again,” Fareeha asks, “How am I going to be able to contact you?  If you’re travelling across the globe, then—”

“I have my Overwatch communicator still,” her mother tells her, finally moving off the couch and closer towards the kitchen, “You can always contact me there.”

“No, you don’t,” Fareeha says, because she knows exactly where Ana’s communicator is—in her bedroom, right now.  “They found it by a collapsed building, where you were last seen alive.”

“You mean Overwatch found it when we were in the process of faking my death,” Ana says flatly.  “And you believed that?”

“Ah,” Fareeha says, “Right.”  The communicator was there, along with a bloodied beret, and Fareeha remembers doubting, when she first heard the news, remembers thinking that those things were not nearly so damning as finding a body, but she dismissed that thought as being a part of the denial stage of grief, as just her having been unable to accept that Ana could die.  After all, she thought then, nothing would keep Ana away from Overwatch, if she were alive, so she _must_ be dead. 

Evidently, Fareeha should have gone with her gut, but the way she felt, then, like nothing made sense—it would have been impossible to do so.  In truth, Fareeha did not believe that Ana was still alive because the pieces did not fit, she just did not _want_ to believe that her mother could die, that the woman who was for so long the center of her universe could just be gone, one day, wiped from existence, for she was just as mortal as the rest of them.  That, more than anything, was why Fareeha did not believe in that first week that her mother was dead, and even now that she knows her conclusion was correct, she knows that her reasons for having reached it were wrong.  Her mother is fallible, like anyone else, is killable.  Just because she was so important to Fareeha, to her life, does not mean that she will live forever.

One day, her mother really will die, and Fareeha knows she has to accept that, now.

She never could before.

She ought to have been numb to it, she remembers thinking, given that she was told for as long as she can remember that her mother might not come home, this time, that something might go wrong, that things cannot always end well.  Her father tried to prepare her for that reality, as best he could, so that if Ana did fall in battle, then Fareeha would be able to understand, somewhat, why and how it had happened, so that she would not be like some of her classmates, who screamed and cried and were angry for days, weeks, _years_ at their parents for leaving one day and never coming home.

In a way, Sam was successful, because when Ana died, even though she and Fareeha had not spoken in over a year, and had parted on difficult terms, Fareeha felt ready, felt like this was something for which she was prepared, recognized denial in herself for what it was, but it was not a true acceptance, not like he wanted for her or like she pushed for herself to feel.  It was only because Overwatch survived that Fareeha felt comfortable with the idea of Ana’s death, because in a way, she was not _truly_ gone, her legacy still very much alive and well, even if besieged.

In Fareeha’s mind, they were always linked, Overwatch and her mother.  One could not exist without the other, and her childish desire to want to be her mother became a desire to join Overwatch.  If Overwatch accepted her, then surely her mother had to, too.  If she handled her mother’s death well, initially, if she was able to be objective about her grief, to identify which thoughts were irrational and move beyond them quickly, it was only because she did not _truly_ feel like her mother was gone, in those first few months, could still hear in the news about Overwatch, and imagine her mother was still there, among them, imagine that she might make an appearance in any of their latest reports, standing stony faced behind Jack as he fielded questions about some mission or another, or smiling for some promotional event.

When her father tried to prepare her for her mother’s death, he told her that if Ana died, it would be for something greater.  He meant, of course, trying to save the world, but to young Fareeha it sounded like he meant for Overwatch specifically, and so although he prepared her for Ana’s death, he never prepared her for Overwatch’s destruction, could not have known how that would have affected her more than the death of her mother ever could.

It seemed eternal, Overwatch, seemed like it would always be there, to Fareeha, and the others of her generation, who do not remember a life before the United Nations formed the organization as a last ditch attempt to stop the Omnic Crisis.  And why should it not have been?  Overwatch saved the world, and was by all accounts therefore far more successful than any of the United Nations’ other initiatives, and yet the International Monetary Fund is in no peril after more than a century, nor is the World Health Organization or UNESCO, while Overwatch is gone. 

Even now, it feels unthinkable to Fareeha that Overwatch should be gone.

Yet here, in return, is her mother, whose death proved less permanent than that of the organization which ought to have immortalized her.

Although, given what her mother has suggested, Overwatch is not so dead as the United Nations has declared, with various agents continuing its work across the globe even now, agents such as her mother.  Who is immortalizing whom?

And who else is still alive?  She knows they never found Jack’s—

A change in smell alerts Fareeha to the fact that the chicken is done, and she forgets she ever had the thought in favor of ensuring that she does not burn dinner. 

Her mother, who set the table in the time Fareeha was cooking, poured them each a glass of water and set out plates next to one another, properly and with napkins, frowns almost imperceptibly when Fareeha puts the serving plate down, “You always did seem to prefer Western food,” says she.

“Because Dad taught me to cook,” with the way the table is set, she is seated beside her mother, rather than across from her, on the wide side of the table.  It is not how Fareeha would have chosen to lay things out, but does make reaching the food easier, “If you’d been a good cook, then maybe I’d know how to make more stuff from here.”

This, at least, seems to amuse her mother, rather than cause offense.  “Your father never did have an adventurous palate,” she chuckles as she says this, even though calling eating her cooking _adventurous_ would be an understatement.

“He doesn’t,” Fareeha agrees, and then notices the strange tense to the way her mother spoke.  _Never did have?_ Fareeha is not sure if her mother means he did not in the past, continuing into the present, or if she means he did not, past tense only, as if he were dead.

It could be a slip of the tongue.  They switched to English, when talking about dinner, a habit from family meals of years past when they would always switch languages at the table in order to ensure that Fareeha grew equally fluent in English and Arabic, and her mother, although very, _very_ good at English, still makes the occasional mistake.

Surely, that must be what it is, and it is an understandable error, as the past continuous tense does not exist in Arabic.

Fareeha switches languages to make things easier, “Speaking of Dad,” asks she, “Does he know you’re alive?”

“No,” her mother says, and ought of the corner of her eye Fareeha thinks she sees Ana’s left hand, sitting in her lap, tighten into a fist, “Why would he?”

“Because he’s your husband?”  Her parents have a complicated relationship, it is true, have been estranged for some time, but they are still married, and do, Fareeha thinks, still love one another, even if they have difficultly discussing their relationship, with Fareeha or among themselves.

Her father was devastated, when Ana died, in a way that Fareeha was not able to be, and that is part of the reason why she could not reach out to him after Overwatch fell, was afraid to burden him with her feelings, too, because she does not know how she could possibly justify that _now_ she is hurting, when she must have seemed so cold to him, back when her mother died.  Even after all the time he spent preparing Fareeha for the possibility of her mother’s death, it seems he never considered it himself.

Fareeha understands.  Ana has always had a way of making herself seem more than she is, somehow superhuman, infallible, even to those who know her well enough that they _ought_ to be aware that such is far from the truth.  How could he prepare?  How could either of them?

“It wouldn’t be good for him, Fareeha,” Ana says, after a long pause, now very deliberately not looking at her daughter.  “What would I say?”

“I don’t know,” Fareeha cannot believe this, “Anything?”  Surely, it would be better to know.

But then again, maybe not.  After all, it hurt her so badly this morning, to know that her mother was alive and had not told her, had not wanted Fareeha to continue to be in her life, and at least now _Fareeha_ has the opportunity to work with Ana, to earn her way back into her mother’s life, to find some way to convince her that she belongs and that they can work together.  Her father cannot do the same, he does not have their skills, and never has wanted to have them.  What would he do?  What _could_ he do?  All that would change, for him, with Ana being alive, is that he would know that for whatever reason, she did not think them worthy of knowing that she lived, did not feel the need to spare them the pain of her dying.  He will not win her back, will have no happy ending, will only be left, again, with the fear of losing her, of her dying, but this time, not only would he not recover a body, but he would have no way of knowing when or how or even where she died, would only realize after she fell out of contact for a while that the radio silence was not her being busy, or on a mission, or putting off calling back, would need to one day decide for himself to give up hope, for she was really gone.  And how can he be expected to do that, now, with her having come back from the dead once already?

No, perhaps her mother is right.  Perhaps her father is best left in the dark.  Perhaps she is sparing him that pain.

But should it not be his choice, to feel that pain or not?  Does he not have a right to—

“You know I’ve never been good at telling him what I mean to say,” her mother says, finally, and Fareeha can agree with that.  Her parents’ ways of understanding words were always just out of sync enough that they could hurt each other, badly, with the kindest of intentions.

“I could do it for you,” Fareeha offers, even though she really, _really_ does not want to be in the middle of another one of her parents’ arguments, like she was so often in her teenage years.

“No,” Ana tells her, with great finality.  “It has to be me.”

Well, that is not a promise, not an _I will tell him_ , but Fareeha supposes that is as committal as her mother is going to get, and at least it sounds as if she is taking _some_ responsibility for all of this.

Maybe.

“You’re right,” Fareeha agrees, because really, she would not have believed it herself, if her mother had not been before her, would not have been able to accept Ana back from the dead.  If she closes her eyes, does not see her mother before her, she _still_ cannot accept it, almost thinks it a dream.  It feels like one, has that hazy feeling of waking up at four o’clock in the afternoon, trying to hold onto something you dreamt, but being pulled from your thoughts by the sun in your eyes and the noise from the people on the streets, passing by.  If Fareeha blinks, if she lets herself be distracted for a moment, it will all fade away and her mother will not be here anymore, will not be sitting beside her, will be replaced by an empty place setting, or nothing at all.

Silence, then, as Fareeha considers the unreality of the situation and Ana considers something else—hopefully her relationship with her husband, and the way in which her behavior impacts both him and Fareeha.

Maybe she just thinks about how Fareeha did not season the chicken properly, because she was so caught up in her own thoughts when preparing it.  Fareeha would not know either way.  Her mother has always been hard to read, has always guarded her own emotions a little too well, save for when they escape in outbursts, little punctuations of what must be a much greater sea of feeling, and if anything it is worse, now, than it has been in the past, feels almost as if the woman next to her is a stranger with her mother’s face.

She is not, of course, is still familiar in the way that she moves, the things that she knows, the way that she tries to mother Fareeha, even when it is unwelcome, because no matter how poorly they get along now, Fareeha will always be her child.  Once, that irked Fareeha, was just another symptom of her mother thinking of her as being somehow unworthy, unable to join Overwatch, because she was a _child_ in her mother’s eyes, but now—now it is different, because maybe Ana does not think her competent, yet, but she has the chance to prove herself, and anyway, she can see more easily how much it is for Ana’s sake as her own, an attempt to make sense of a relationship that neither of them can quite parse anymore.

Still, there is something about her which is so _alien_ , suddenly, as if there were a stranger, now, in her mother’s body.  What has happened to her, in her time spent ‘dead’?  What has changed her?  Was it the isolation?  The losing?  Having to watch, powerless, as the organization she dedicated decades of her life to building was destroyed?

Fareeha cannot ask, because she does not want to know.  Partly, this is because whatever it was, it must have been horrible, to have changed her mother, the stubbornest person Fareeha has ever known, and she would not put her mother through the ordeal of recounting something so terrible.  Partly, it is because, as much as Fareeha wants _her_ version of Ana back, the version of her mother who is familiar to her, whom she can predict, Fareeha likes some of the ways Ana has changed, in the past months, the way she apologizes, now, and trusts Fareeha to have something of worth to contribute to… whatever it is they are doing.

“Mum?” asks she, “You mentioned a plan…?”

Enough tarrying.  They have eaten most of their meal, with the quickness soldiers are accustomed to, and the world is at stake.

“Liao really is dead,” Ana starts, and Fareeha thinks that is an inauspicious beginning to this conversation.  “Or, if not, they only told Reyes they were going under, and I don’t have any way of contacting them.”

“I take it we need them?”  Fareeha is not entirely clear on what, exactly, Liao’s role was in the Crisis, other than that those on the First Strike considered them to be a vital member to the team, despite their only official role having been as a communications officer, coordinating ops from a distance.  Whatever it was Liao really did, and Fareeha is not stupid enough to believe that they were only a communications officer, it must have been huge, to have remained secret and out of the press for so long, even now that Overwatch has fallen.

“We need their technology,” her mother corrects, and that is not helpful, exactly, since Fareeha does not know what that might be.  “We can’t mess with the containment on any of the God Programs—that would be _worse_ —but there is one other item built with their work.”

“Okay,” says Fareeha, “Great, so we get that, and—”

“It’s the chronal accelerator,” her mother says, and Fareeha’s heart sinks a little.

“ _Please_ tell me we don’t have to kill Tracer,” Fareeha does not know Lena Oxton personally, but she quite likes her, from the holovids she has seen.  She also feels a certain solidarity, knowing that the other woman is also gay, but that is neither here nor there, as she does not want to have to murder _anyone_ in order to save the world.

She will, though, if she has to.

“Fareeha!” her mother seems shocked, “We’re trying to save people, not kill them!”

“Okay,” Fareeha says, because she can agree with that, but there’s just one problem with that, “I really don’t wanna kill her.  But I’m pretty sure she needs the accelerator to live, so…”

“Stealing the accelerator wouldn’t kill her, it would indefinitely trap her outside of time, leaving her stuck between life and death.”  Her mother says this rather matter of factly, and Fareeha has to suppress the urge to shiver.  “But we won’t be doing that either.”

“Oh,” Fareeha says weakly, “Good.”  Honestly, that sounds _worse_ than murder.

“Instead, we’re going to kidnap someone who built the chronal accelerator.”

“Uh,” Fareeha sees several flaws with this plan immediately, “Winston’s a genetically modified gorilla.  Even if we could somehow subdue him, I don’t think we can sneak him into the country.”  And even if they could, somehow, pull off such a feat, she very much doubts he would fit into her condo.

Her mother makes a strange face in reaction to that statement, and Fareeha does not quite know how to parse it.  Quickly as it was there, however, it is gone, and her mother continues as if nothing at all was said, “Doctor Ziegler also worked on the project, if I remember correctly.”

“Oh,” Fareeha says, and feels a bit silly for having assumed that they would try to kidnap _Winston_ , of all people.  “Yeah, she did.”  It was all over the news, her, Winston, and a beaming Tracer as they announced her rescue.  “I didn’t think she had that much of role, though, on the physics side of things.”

“Her PhD is in some sort of engineering, and she’s a bright woman,” Ana says, but there is an edge to her voice, as if it pains her to compliment Mercy, “I’m sure we’ll figure it out.”

“If you’re certain…” To say that Fareeha is skeptical of the idea that a biomechanical engineering PhD qualifies one to understand quantum mechanics is an understatement, but Ana is the one who knows Mercy better, which makes Fareeha realize suddenly, that, “Wait, why do we have to kidnap her?”

“You think she’d willingly work with Overwatch?”

“I mean her UN testimony _was_ pretty harsh,” Fareeha concedes, “But she spent pretty much her entire adult life working for you.  I really don’t think she’d need to be kidnapped with the world on the line.”  As a matter of fact, Fareeha would like to believe that _most_ people would choose to work with people they found distasteful over the near-certain death of millions, but what does she know?

“It’s not the world,” Ana says, deliberately not addressing what it was Fareeha just said.

This time, Fareeha catches her diversion quickly enough to call her on it, “That’s moot.  Why don’t you think Mercy will work with us?”  Fareeha admittedly does not know her, but she has seen her in holovids for years, and although Mercy feels fairly strongly about the fact that Overwatch deserved to be shut down, Fareeha does not think that she would refuse to help if another Omnic Crisis were on the line.  From Fareeha’s impression of her, and Fareeha would like to think herself a good judge of character, Mercy seems to genuinely want to do good in the world, and to stop others from being orphaned, as she herself was, by war or by Overwatch.  Passively allowing another Crisis would be antithetical to that.

“She doesn’t know I’m alive,” Ana says, and it is not quite an answer to Fareeha’s question, but it is close enough that Fareeha gets some idea of the situation.  “Only a few people do, and for good reason.  If she talked to the UN, there’s no guarantee she won’t talk about this, even if I do think she’d give us the courtesy of waiting until after we’ve averted a Crisis.”

“And kidnapping her avoids this problem how?”  If anything, kidnapping ought to only compound the situation.  Surely, the first thing she would do upon being freed would be to report the crime, and the perpetrators.

“Simple,” says her mother, “We make sure you’re the only one she talks to.”

So Fareeha would be the only one facing the consequences?  Mercy and she do not know each other, it is true, but Fareeha is very recognizably Ana Amari’s daughter, and so if there is any alternative she would really rather avoid jail time.  “Can’t we just, I don’t know, invite her over to talk about it?”  If she has to, Fareeha will sacrifice her career and reputation in order to save the world from a second Omnic Crisis, but would strongly prefer not to, if at all possible, and Mercy seems like a reasonable enough woman, from the holovids.

“You have her contact information?” Her mother’s voice is sharper than usual, as she says this, and Fareeha again wonders why, but she knows this is neither the time nor the place to have this conversation, not when they should very much be focusing instead on the end of the world, and apocalypse adjacent scenarios.

“No,” Fareeha says, “But you do, I’m pretty sure.  Your old communicator definitely still works, so provided she has hers, we can get in contact with her.”  This assumes, of course, that whatever network the communicators worked on was not taken down with Overwatch, but Fareeha would, again, rather attempt that and fail then jump straight into kidnapping someone.  It feels rather drastic.

“And say what, exactly?  I won’t have you compromise my cover just because you find kidnapping distasteful.”  The statement rather surprises Fareeha, as her mother always struck her as the sort of person who would, in fact, find kidnapping distasteful, and when Blackwatch came to light following her mother’s death, Fareeha assumed Ana either did not know the extent of their activities or did not approve.  Clearly, she was wrong about that.

“I don’t know,” Fareeha admits. 

“It had better be good, if we want her to come all this way.”  Again, Fareeha finds herself surprised by just how much Ana does not know about the things that have transpired since her death, about the movements of the people whose lives were once so entangled with her own.  It makes sense, of course, if Ana has had to be off the grid, that she would not have time to learn about all the minute details of her former coworkers’ lives, but still, Fareeha does find herself in the unusual position of being, for once, the one of them with more knowledge.

“She’s living in the city, actually,” Fareeha says, “Not full time, I think, but she’s opening up a clinic and it made the local news.”  It was an interesting thing, to watch.  Mercy, for all the good press she receives, is not necessarily the best at handing the camera, or interviews, does not have the personality for it, or the flare Fareeha could see in her mother, in Jack.  Nowadays, that may be working to her advantage, as she clearly was not so wrapped up in the theater of Overwatch in the same way many of her colleagues were, and it gives her a sense of genuineness. 

Still, Fareeha thinks a prepared statement might have helped, and pre-censoring questions.  Instead, Mercy answered whatever was asked of her truthfully, no matter how uncomfortable, and her statement about righting Overwatch’s wrongs still rings through Fareeha’s ears, at night.

What wrongs?  What did Overwatch do, here, that was so terrible?  It cannot just be the economic collapse that followed the shutdown of the Anubis Project, there was clearly something else, there, Fareeha could hear it between the words that were spoken.  What was it?  Does her mother know, or was it after she ‘died,’ and new operations continued to be authorized without her?

No matter.  Doctor Ziegler is here, now, in Egypt, is living and working among the people, whether out of a sense of guilt, or social responsibility, or altruism, it does not matter.  She is here, and that is convenient to Fareeha’s current purposes, means she is spared the trouble of kidnapping anyone.  For now, that is enough.

“Convenient,” Ana says, in a way that sounds less _pleased_ and more _suspicious,_ “But it still doesn’t solve the problem of getting her to work with us without compromising me.”

“You really don’t think we can trust her?”  If kidnapping is _truly_ necessary then Fareeha will do it, because Ana does know Mercy better, and if she really would be such a risk to their operation Fareeha supposes they have no choice.

“It isn’t that,” Ana says, moving her now empty plate away to focus her attention more fully on Fareeha again, looking her in the eyes.  “She’ll do what she thinks is best for the world.  The problem there is that her idea and my idea of what’s best are rarely the same.”  Rarely, Fareeha gets the impression, is an understatement.  “I don’t want to be stuck working with her indefinitely after all this is over, but if she knows about anything then she won’t be easily dissuaded.”

“So we just have to convince her that this is an isolated incident.”  It seems obvious enough to Fareeha.  If there is no sign of a larger operation, then there is no reason for her to stay involved, and cause problems for Ana down the line.

“If it were isolated, then I wouldn’t have had any reason for going underground.”  Her mother may have a point there, Fareeha has to admit.  How _would_ they explain away her presence, in such a situation?  Everyone who knew her is well aware that Ana would never abandon Overwatch, not for any reason, and so it would be impossible to convince Mercy of the same, particularly if Ana _coincidentally_ needed her help for something related to the God Programs, something about them which was kept secret from the general public.  Such would be instantly suspicious. 

“Okay,” Fareeha says, “I think I see your point about not telling her you’re alive.”  Or, rather, Fareeha thinks she is beginning to vaguely understand why Ana _might_ not want Mercy to know she is alive, which is nowhere near truly seeing Ana’s point, because she does not know enough about the dynamics at play to make more than an educated guess, but she has a general enough idea that it _seems_ agreeable, what her mother is saying.  That is enough for Fareeha, not accustomed to doubting her mother, not in matters like this.  “But what if I could get her to work with _me_?”

“How are you going to do that?” her mother leans away as she says this, moves from up close to Fareeha to a middle distance, clearly in disbelief.  “If you don’t know her, she’s not just going to come help you on an unspecified errand because you asked nicely.”

“Right,” Fareeha agrees, “She won’t.”  Who would?  It sounds unsafe, and with Talon still very much active, and rumors beginning to swirl around that Overwatch agents who survived the explosion at base being targeted, Fareeha cannot imagine that Mercy is keen on meeting up with any strangers, alone, with no good reason given upfront for doing so.  “But she might come if you asked her to.”

“Fareeha—”

“Not _really_ you,” Fareeha explains, “Like, if I said you’d made plans with me before you died, or laid out instructions in your will, or something, in case the worst happened, and one of those instructions included contacting her, which is why I have your communicator.”  It might make sense, her mother having pushed her away, then, putting her coincidentally in Helix and guarding the Anubis God Program at just the right time.  In fact, it would make more sense than the actual series of events and coincidences that led to that being so, and Fareeha is beginning to wonder, on some level, if her mother _did_ plan this.  To her own ears, it sounds ridiculous, but she feels like there is something else here, something that she is missing, something that does not quite fit between what her mother told her in the past and what she is being told is true now.

“And you expect her to believe this?”  Her mother sounds skeptical, for which Fareeha does not blame her, both of them know well just how poorly Fareeha’s previous attempts at duplicity have gone.

“Well,” Fareeha says, “It’s not like I’d be outright _lying_.  It’s just half truths, and those I think I can sell.”  Most of the time, anyway.

A frown, but less disapproving and more considering, “And if you can’t?”

“Well,” Fareeha says, “Then there’s always Plan B, and we kidnap her.”

Fareeha really, _really_ hopes it does not come to that.

Now, her mother laughs, and seems to agree, says, “You really _are_ my daughter,” as she moves to stand, picking up their now empty dishes and bringing them to the sink.

Somehow, Fareeha does not find the comment quite nearly so funny.

“Did you kidnap people often?” she sounds cautious, even to her own ears, as she stands and moves into the kitchen to help with the washing up.

“You’ve seen the news, haven’t you?” her mother’s voice is even, calm and she does not even glance up from the dishes as she says so, weathered hands slipping into the soapy water.  They are calloused from years spent holding a gun, from pulling the trigger and ending lives.  This, Fareeha knows, has felt those same callouses in the gentlest of moments between them, as her mother reached to wipe tears from her face, or pinched her cheeks in greeting, but still it is hard to imagine her mother as capable of such violence, even as Fareeha has always been _proud_ of her mother’s ability to do commit such acts. 

Have those hands kidnapped people?  Probably, yes.  Have they tortured?  That was something that was discussed, with the discovery of Blackwatch, but Fareeha did not know, then, what role her mother played, if any, in what Gabriel did. 

There is a disconnect, in Fareeha’s mind, between her mother the soldier and her mother _Ana_ , who is always so gentle with her, who would have babied Fareeha for her entire life, had Fareeha allowed it, always seeking to protect her, to shield her from the realities of the world, whether or not Fareeha wanted that for herself.  How could her mother, who worried endlessly about a young teenage Fareeha’s safety when she biked two blocks away to a friend’s house, have ended anyone’s life?  How could anyone capable of such great care be equally capable of violence?

Perhaps it should not surprise Fareeha, after all.  Does she not do much the same?  Does she not consider, every time, the life at the other end of her rocket launcher, and still fire? 

Maybe it is that easy, after all, to justify such things.  Maybe all the other things come easily, after one has grown used to killing, for what could be worse?

“I guess I hadn’t thought that much about your role in it,” Fareeha says finally, after a long pause.  She has not thought that much about her role in such things, either, about all the ways in which she is complicit in greater systems of violence beyond simply shooting people deemed the enemy.  Always, she has believed that she would never torture anyone, would never kidnap anyone, would do everything by the book, killing only when circumstances necessitated it.  Yet her mother did otherwise, and she and Ana are so, so alike.  What does it say about her, to be the daughter of someone like that?  What does it say that when her mother hands her a clean dish, she does not think before taking it, does not flinch at the brief contact of skin on skin, does not feel disgust, knowing what it is her mother must have done?  

Is she, too, doomed to do the same, to be the same?  Is this whom she will become, in a few decades’ time?

Surely not, but—

“I authorized all of it.”  As she says it, Ana does not sound proud, but nor does she sound ashamed, either, only resigned.  It is the truth, and she does not seem inclined to shy from it.  Unlike many of her more unpleasant declarations in the past, there is no defiant edge to this, no challenge in her voice, her stance, as if daring Fareeha to question her decisions, there is no defensiveness, only the sense that she is tired, that the magnitude of her choices, all that she has done, or allowed to happen, weighs on her heavily and has left her weary, far too much so for a fight.

“Even—” Fareeha does not know which of so many things she would have named, if her mother had given the chance, her mouth having begun the sentence before her brain caught up.

“All of it,” her mother repeats, handing her the second plate.  “And it was for the best.”

Does she really believe that, Fareeha wonders.  How can she, after all that has happened, after all that was done?

But then, how can she not?  If she did not believe in it, believe in what it was she did, surely it would be maddening to think about, would be crushing, the weight of the guilt one would carry, after everything.  How could anyone survive knowing what it was her mother says she authorized, if they did not believe that they were right to do so?  If her mother questioned herself, even once, gave herself even a moment to think that she was wrong, to do all of that, then it would mean acknowledging that somewhere along the way, the organization she dedicated her life to became something which she never meant it to be, became nearly so bad as the same evils she fought against, and then where would Ana be?

Dead, most likely.

But Overwatch was _not_ that bad, Fareeha reminds herself.  It could not have been.  It was full of good people, not only her mother, those who would never have stood for such things, and in any case, it was better than everyone having died in the Crisis, surely.  Anything would have been better than that.

Maybe, Fareeha tells herself, as she puts the last cup on the drying rack, with a satisfying little clink, her mother is just trying to push her away, again, or she does not know how extreme the accusations in the news are—she did not know, after all, that Mercy was in town, and—

And maybe this is what Mercy was talking about, making amends.  Maybe it _is_ true.

But even as Fareeha begins to entertain the thought in earnest, something about it does not quite fit, to her, something seems just off.

Maybe this is denial, again, the same as she felt when she thought that her mother had to be alive for the wrong reasons, only because she could not imagine Ana dying.  She cannot imagine her mother doing any of this.

Her mother was her hero, all Fareeha’s life, and if her mother it _that_ sort of killer, what kind of person does that make Fareeha?

Not a good one, surely, even if she tries to be.

Her mother has moved away from the sink now, but Fareeha is still there, staring at the counter, as if the reddish brown of the tile had any answer for her.  It does not, but it is cool beneath her fingers as she places her hands on it, palms flat, and it is still, and steady, one thing unchanged even as she feels her world shift around her.  What does it mean, to be an Amari?  Fareeha thought she knew.

Once, she thought it meant heroism, when she was a child, thought it meant saving the world, doing what was best for everyone, and being loved for that.  Everything about it seemed glamourous, even the violence, was all superheroics and feats of bravery, of nobility.  It was something superhuman.

Then, as she grew older, she saw it as dedication, as doing the right thing even if it was difficult, as working long hours even if she did not want to in unpleasant conditions so that others could sleep at night, knowing they were safe.  This, she thought, was greater than being a hero, because heroes were born the way that they were, or were made to be somehow greater than normal people, but her mother simply worked harder than everyone else, cared more, in order to do the same amount of work as others who were genetically enhanced, because she was that dedicated.

Most recently, she thought being an Amari was to embrace sacrifice, to know that one might die in order to protect others, and being proud of that, of the knowledge that one’s own death might mean something greater, if it saves the lives of innocents.  So she grinned and bore everything, thought that her own suffering, her own losses and unsurety and unhappiness were acceptable, because it was better that she felt this way than _everyone_ did, and if her feeling alone in the world, displaced even in her own life was what it took to keep others safe, then she would not complain, not once.

Always, she was certain of her identity, and took pride in her family name, knew that the legacy she was born into was a great one, and one that she _needed_ to carry on, no matter what.

Now, however, she finds herself for the first time unsure.

It is possible, she tells herself, that her mother does not know the full extent of what Overwatch has been accused of, in the press.  It is possible, too, that she does know and was simply trying to test Fareeha’s reaction, but there is something in the way she laughed, when Fareeha described kidnapping as plan b, that makes Fareeha think that no, Ana was honest.

Her mother is a killer, this she has always known, but what more?

And how far is Fareeha willing to go, to help her mother?  How much is she willing to do?  Already, she has let Ana go, rather than apprehending her after her discovery in the Temple of Anubis.  Admittedly that was not as much of a choice as is could have been, as her mother clearly had the upper hand in a firefight, but now she is considering kidnapping, too.  How far will she go to earn her mother’s approval, at long last?  What will she allow herself to become?

The world is at stake, of course, and there is that to consider.  Fareeha would not kidnap someone simply because her mother asked nicely, or even if her mother ordered her, is only doing this because if she does not, far worse things will happen, but how many times did her mother use that same justification?  How many kidnappings, how much torture, was for the sake of the safety of others?  When did that shift from the truth to a lie?

For it was a lie in the end, with Overwatch.  No matter how well intentioned the early days of Blackwatch, by the time certain things came to light, some of their actions were unconscionable, unjustifiable.  Overwatch was so big, and so powerful, there _must_ have been some other way, yet they chose violence, again and again.

Has Fareeha not chosen violence too?  Her mother suggested she not become a soldier, yet here she is, a member of a private security force, an army for hire.  That is hardly the same as _assassination,_ or torture, or deals with devils like Maximilien, yet it is a far cry from what it is she initially enlisted to do.  Whom does she protect, when she kills people?  Whom did she ever protect?

The wars they fight now, they are not the Crisis.  Humanity will not be wiped out, if one side wins or the other.  Yes, some positions are undoubtedly worse than others, but the soldiers on the battlefield, the ones Fareeha has killed?  None of them deserve to die.  This, she knew the first time she killed, felt it in her bones as she felt the hot spray of blood on her face and watched the man drop in front of her, once alive and now just—nothing.  Gone.  He did not deserve to die, did not choose to be on the battlefield where he made the mistake of ducking for cover in the same area Fareeha turned out to be hiding, and to find himself on the other end of her gun.  His commander chose that he should be there, and his commander, and his commander, all the way up to the person who declared war.

It is they who deserve to die, not the soldiers, the people who start wars that they will never fight in, doom soldiers whose names they will never know to die on battlefields they will never visit, all in the name of vanity, or power, or pride, all so they have a political talking point, a victory in their pocket as they seek reelection or the approval of their people, hundreds of kilometers and lifetimes away from any of the fighting.

But did her mother not become one of those people?  Did Ana not rise high enough in the ranks that it was her call, at times, to deploy soldiers?  Is that not whom Fareeha wanted to be?

No, she thinks, surely not.  The UN must have decided, they _must_ have, must have been the ones who decided, again and again, when to engage, and her mother only did what she could with that order.  The records and the testimonies before the tribunal show that her mother hated the position that politics put them in, unable to decide for themselves when and where to intervene. 

But does that mean she wanted more violence, or less?

It is hard to say, and impossible to ask. 

What could her mother answer that would be satisfactory?  Does Fareeha even want to know the answers?  How can she herself live with the name _Amari_ if—

“Fareeha?”  Her mother sounds concerned, now and Fareeha wonders what makes her think she has the _right_ to be concerned, when she has done all that she has, when she has waltzed back into Fareeha’s life and brought all of these problems with her.  Why did her mother get to order so many people to their deaths, and still live?  “Are you alright, dear?  You’ve been standing there for ten minutes.”

“’M fine,” says she, sounds terse even to her own ears.

“Are you sure, you don’t look—”

“I’m _fine_ ,” Fareeha insists, more strongly this time, turns to face her mother and wonders, again, how she could have felt joy at the idea of working alongside her, finally, could have felt hope.  She needs to do this, she does, because another Crisis is at stake, but Fareeha does not think that she has ever wanted to do anything less than she wants to cooperate with her mother, in this moment.  Ana is _not_ the woman Fareeha thought she was, and Fareeha wonders if things might have been better if she _had_ died, because then, at least, even if Fareeha was lost, even if she did not know how to feel, she did not doubt Ana, the one constant guiding star she has had her entire life.  Now she is lost, doubtful, _and_ without anyone to look to as a guide, unsure of even the most core parts of her being, the knowledge that she is her mother’s daughter.  She cannot stay here, she realizes suddenly, not right now.  “I just—I need to go out.”

“Can it wait?”  Her mother is still concerned, but obviously displeased with this turn of events.  “You could at least contact Doctor Ziegler first.”

“No,” Fareeha says, and she can be firm with her mother, now, learned how after having spent her late teens fighting with her, “You took your time this morning, I can do the same now.  I just need—I just need a minute to myself.”

“I told you that—” Her mother’s voice is reproachful, and her expression softened by sorrow. 

Fareeha knows what Ana told her, about what she realized what she saw, but she does not _care_ right now, does not feel any sympathy.

“I’m going,” says she, “Right now.”

“In your pyjamas?”

“ _Yes,_ ” Fareeha says, pushing past her mother and out of the kitchen, aware, now, that all she is wearing is a tank top and sleep pants with little rainbows printed on them, and not caring one bit, “In my pyjamas!”  She must seem unreasonable, right now, but she is suddenly entirely certain that she does not want to be the sort of person whom her mother finds reasonable.

“You’ll catch a cold!”  Ana’s voice follows her down the hallway, as she crosses through the living room, past the entrance to the nursery and the coat closet, and to the door.

“It’s May!” she calls over her shoulder as she shoves her feet into shoes, grabs a carton of cigarettes from her favorite coat, and slams the door behind her, unwilling to let her mother have the last word, childish as that may be.  It is May, and it is early evening afternoon, and the next thing Fareeha knows she finds herself on the sidewalk, again surrounded by people going about their daily lives, unaware of everything that is happening, of the danger they are in and the turmoil that Fareeha’s life has suddenly been thrown into.

For a moment, she feels guilty looking at them, knows that they are all at risk for every moment she tarries, but if her mother can waste time on niceties then Fareeha can go for a walk to clear her head, can give herself the time she needs to collect her thoughts before they continue, and she has to call Mercy and pretend that everything is fine, and normal, and the world may be in danger but that it is something she feels completely prepared for.

As they pass her on the sidewalk people turn, and they stare, they notice her unkempt hair and her pyjamas and maybe see her emotions on her face, and this time, the staring is almost tolerable.  Why should they not do so?  At least this time she has given them something to stare at, not only feels as if she is living a life entirely separated from them, but looks it, too.

Let them stare, for they could not think any less of her than they did already, and let them stare, for she could not think any less of _herself_ , either, in this moment, could not feel any worse, suddenly of all the things she has been proud of.

She is an Amari, genetics wrote it on her face, but she chose to underline it with the tattoo she got only a week ago.

Suddenly, she wants to scratch, wants to mar it, to ruin the ink as it heals, cannot bear the thought of having it inscribed on her face, and her hand is halfway to her cheek when she sees the sun setting, and she stops. 

At the edge of the sky, the bright gold of the sun stands out against the deep blue of the sun setting.

 _Sleep on it,_ her father would tell her, _Don’t make such hasty decisions._  

So she puts her hand down, turns, and walks in the opposite direction, goes to the little community garden around the corner, and lights a cigarette instead.  This is not the time to be impulsive, she knows.  If she is going to be different from her mother, who was always so decisive, then Fareeha _needs_ to start taking time to consider things.  Breathe in, breathe out.  Having to take a drag forces her to focuses on that sensation, her own breathing, and slowly, slowly, she calms down.

She is not her mother, she is not her mother, she is _not._

Pointedly, she does not once look in the direction of the setting sun, and by the time she is finished, the light is gone entirely, and the night is black.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> some notes:  
> \- only eating w ur right hand is good table manners in the arab world  
> \- since ana is canonically a good cook i imagine fareeha mostly picked up on western recipes via her dad... ahhh diaspora  
> \- liao is non-binary bc i said so  
> \- can we tell i hate the un? ill never forgive them for what they did to palestine  
> \- yes smoking will kill u but has egypt gotten that message? no.
> 
> anyway hopefully u are having a good night w no work related emergencies LMFAO


	4. love is like no other; a mother to my mother

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> seems like i wrote this chapter forever ago. actually it was only about a month, but this is the first fic ive really written in advance, so... waiting so long to post is torture lmao

Eventually, Fareeha makes her way back to her condo, or, rather, what was until the night previous, her condo, and now might once again be her mother’s, technically.  She is not sure, with her mother alive, after all, if she can really count it as her own, and her inheritance with it.  Certainly, she hopes that her mother will not want her to move, because Fareeha has really only just settled in, and she likes the neighborhood, but she understands, too, that given that she is legally dead, it cannot be easy for Ana to acquire a new home, and if she _does_ change her mind about settling down, that it is the best and easiest option for her. 

The last thing Fareeha needs right now is another thing to worry about, but she supposes the fact that she has been unintentionally committing insurance fraud _is_ the sort of thing she needs to discuss with her mother, sooner or later.  As a person who is generally law abiding, Fareeha does not want to have to live with the anxiety hanging over her of potentially facing legal trouble if she gets audited.

Well, that and the worry of being (correctly) accused of kidnapping.  Which should honestly probably be her first priority, right now, but it is a crime she is only possibly _planning_ to commit, as opposed to insurance fraud, which she knows for a fact she has already been unwittingly guilty of.

Just another concern to add to the growing list she supposes, and that brings a bit of her foul mood back, even as she makes the walk back to the condo after having supposedly gone out to cool her head.  Even if she does not commit a kidnapping, and begin to follow in her mother’s footsteps in such a way, Ana has already roped her into committing a crime, now, by allowing her to believe that she was dead, has made her complicit.  It feels _unfair_ , that Fareeha has not been given a choice in this, and beyond that petulance, is a violation of her trust.  Knowing how important it has always been to Fareeha that rules be obeyed, as best one is able, no matter how unpleasant, it was thoughtless at best for her mother to have allowed her to be roped into this, for putting her in a position where she feels guilty for something she truly was unaware she was doing.  This is not something Fareeha would have chosen for herself, and she feels forced into the position, into becoming the sort of person she is not.

Then again, here she is willing to go along with kidnapping, if her mother says it is necessary, because the world hangs in the balance.  So perhaps it is not only Ana’s character which Fareeha has misjudged, but her own. 

Still, had Fareeha been _told_ why Ana needed the world to believe her dead, and why it was necessary, therefore that insurance fraud be committed, then even if Fareeha had done it, then at least it would have been her choice.  Even if the outcome were the same, the framing might change quite a lot.

Might.  Maybe.  If it had happened.  Why is Fareeha worrying about this?  What is done is done, her mother would tell her, and worrying about the past will get one nowhere.  One must simply do better in the future.

Fareeha will, even if her mother will not, will begin with contacting Mercy and being as transparent as she can, rather than allowing herself to be drawn further into this web of deceit and crime, and she will tell her mother how she feels about all of this, how the violation of her trust is affecting her, how much easier things would be if they would only communicate with each other. 

Resolved, she opens the door to her condo and steps inside, only to see her mother once again asleep on the couch.

Like this, she looks much older than when she is awake, without the intensity behind her eyes to keep one from paying attention to her wrinkles, her rapidly greying hair.  She is not _old_ , not yet, but she is certainly not so young as she used to be, and Fareeha can see the signs of exhaustion, now, that were hidden when she was conscious.  Undoubtedly, she needs the rest, needs to be able to sleep somewhere _safe_ after so long in hiding, passing from place to place.  It would not do for Fareeha to wake her, would not accomplish anything.

As Ana said, they need, both of them, to be well rested if they are going to stop the Anubis threat—whatever it may be.

Another thing Fareeha needs: more clarification about that.  What will she tell Mercy, in order to enlist her help, what can she?  Fareeha does not know enough to tell a terribly convincing lie, but nor does she know enough of the truth for _that_ to sound believable, either. 

Transparency, she is becoming increasingly aware, is not her mother’s forte, and they will have to have a conversation about it, when she wakes.

For now, Fareeha has a call to make.  Likely, Mercy will not pick up, given the time, if she even still has her Overwatch comm unit with her, but Fareeha at least owes it to her own conscience to try, _before_ she leaps straight to kidnapping.  With any luck, Mercy will get her message, sooner rather than later, and they can avoid the unpleasantness of meeting under other circumstances entirely.

Not that Fareeha is feeling particularly lucky, right now. 

More likely, she will not be able to get a response from Mercy, whether because her message goes unlistened to, or because she does not say something which sounds convincing enough to warrant a response, and the time sensitive nature of she and her mother’s mission will force their hands.

Or, force Fareeha’s.  Somehow, she is getting the impression that it would not feel like such a terrible thing, for Ana, would not be such a burden.  It might, in fact, be business as usual, which is something she finds difficult to reconcile, as she sees her mother sleeping peacefully on the couch.

Asleep, Ana does not _look_ like a killer.  Awake, yes, sometimes, there is an air about her that is undoubtedly dangerous, a shift in her posture, her voice, her expression, but even then, she is Fareeha’s mother, first, in Fareeha’s eyes, and so it is difficult, even after having been incapacitated by her the night previous, to imagine her as the sort of person who is capable of such things. 

Now, especially, it is hard.  She is smaller than Fareeha, and her hands are delicately folded beneath her head, obscuring from view the callouses she has gained over a lifetime of sniping.  Because of her modest form of dress, the scars from her time fighting are hidden, too, and she has always had a slight frame, belying her strength.  If Fareeha did not know any better, her mother might seem like just another woman her age, tired as she makes her way through the transition from middle age to being old, having lost some of her energy along the way.

Her mother is as strong and deadly as ever, Fareeha knows, but asleep, she seems vulnerable in a way that is difficult to reconcile.  It is not a mystery to Fareeha that even the worst of people are still human, is not unknown to her, but still, it is strange to be made aware of the same contrast in her own mother.  Somehow, although she has always been aware of what it is her mother does, it seems more present, now.

Perhaps it is because, since last they spoke when Fareeha was still in basic training, she has taken a life, too.  It has been years, now, since that first kill, but it is still burned in her mind, what it was to know that she ended a life, the terribleness and emptiness of it.  A waste, and little more.  Now, it is hard to see her mother, her work in the same light.  A sniper, Ana has killed far more people than Fareeha ever has, and if it weighs on her, then Fareeha has never seen it, when her mother is awake.

But she thinks she can see it now, as she sleeps, the exhaustion, the way she looks, somehow, so very sad, the fact that the lines by her eyes are from worry, and not laughter.  Hers is not a job Fareeha could ever have done, but it was necessary, once.

Necessity is the only thing that kept Fareeha sane, after her first kill, the knowledge that if she had not pulled the trigger first, it would have been _her_ with a bullet between her eyes.  Did it help Ana, too?  It must have, in the beginning, during the Omnic Crisis, but from what Fareeha knows from the media, and from what her mother admitted to, just this evening, not everything she must have done could have possibly been necessary.  How does she justify it, now?

In equal measure, Fareeha is desperately curious and desperately afraid of the answer.

No matter what she hears, she is sure it will be painful.  Which is worse, that her mother truly believed herself to have no choice, and that she is haunted by it, pained to this day by things from decades ago?  Or that she does not care, anymore, has become numb to the suffering she causes?  Both are equally unpleasant prospects, with unfortunate possible implications about Fareeha’s own future.

All her life, Fareeha has wanted to be like her mother, to continue the Amari legacy, and today, for the first time, she finds herself wondering if maybe, after this is over, she ought to find another line of work.  How can this end well?  How can she ever have believed it could?

Heroes do not exist.  This, the world has been learning slowly as Overwatch has fallen, but it is a lesson Fareeha avoided, until tonight, because she thought her own hero martyred.

Dead, Ana was unimpeachable, was not possibly a part of the legacy which Fareeha found herself hearing about on holovids every day, would not have allowed such things, were she still alive, or else was kept from knowing about them. 

Dead, her mother gave her life protecting others, keeping the people with whom she worked safe, even if it meant sacrificing herself.  Selfless, not the sort of person who authorized torture, but the sort who gave lives.

Dead, her mother was someone to believe in, was more than just a person, as deeply flawed as any other, was able to transcend the sort of failings living, breathing people had, because she was more an ideal than anything else, a collection of memories and beliefs and hopes Fareeha projected onto a person to whom she had not been close in several years.

Now, alive again, her mother is as human as anyone else, and Fareeha does not know how she ought to handle this.  To expect her mother to be perfect is unfair, but she thinks she has a right to be disappointed, to feel cheated.  Certainly, her mother has misrepresented herself, throughout Fareeha’s childhood, misrepresented her beliefs on torture, and doing only what harm is necessary.

Maybe.  There is always the chance that Ana believed what she said, but did not apply the same scrutiny to her own actions as she did others, able to forgive herself under the guise of necessity.

Or, Fareeha supposes, a change might have come more recently, a shift in her mother’s morality over time, and since they were no longer in contact Fareeha was left unaware of it.  Many things are possible.

Regardless, her mother, her _hero_ is alive, again, is here with her now, and Fareeha thinks herself unlucky for it.  Even if a week ago she would have given much to have her mother back, to have again the chance to win her approval, to make her proud, now she thinks that she was foolish, for having wanted such a thing.

People are rarely what one makes them out to be, particularly when they are dead, are rarely so good, so noble, so strong or so stalwart as one would like.  Eventually, they will disappoint.  It is only the suddenness of this which stings.

Naturally, Fareeha has found herself disappointed by Ana before, but the circumstances of the breakdown in their relationship were not the same as this.  It is one thing to accept that one’s mother is only an _okay_ parent, that they are hypocritical, and overprotective, and want for themselves to feel content in your safety more than they want for you to be happy.  It is quite another thing to have idolized one’s mother for her role as a war hero, and to find out in the course of twenty-four hours that not only did she _not_ sacrifice herself to save her squadmates, but that she faked her own death and may or may not have authorized war crimes, and feel okay about having done so.

It is no small thing Fareeha grapples with, as she looks at her sleeping mother and tries to make sense of her.  Which Ana is the real one?  The woman before her now, who seems so calm when she suggests that kidnapping an innocent woman may be necessary?  The hero of Fareeha’s childhood?  The mother who wanted so desperately to protect her daughter that she hurt Fareeha, instead?

Surely, they cannot all coexist within one person.  One of them must be the _true_ Ana.  But which?

Perhaps it does not matter, anymore.  Now that Fareeha has seen this other, different side of her mother, things between them can never again be what once they were.  Ana may not have changed, after all, but Fareeha’s perception of her has, and she knows that she will never quite trust her mother in the same way, will never view her actions in the same light, even as she goes along with the current plan her mother has put forth, for the sake of the rest of the world.

Then again, things would have changed between them anyway, for Fareeha is greatly changed, too, and it is therefore not entirely fair to place all of the blame on Ana, for what has become of their relationship.

But she can blame her mother for dying, for lying, for allowing her to believe that she had lost her, and for the deception that forced Fareeha’s complicity in such a thing.  She _can_ blame her for the violation of trust, and for the fact that she still prioritizes what she thinks will make Fareeha the safest over allowing Fareeha to choose things for herself.  She can, and she will, when her mother wakes.

Now is not the time to be worrying about this, however.  Fareeha shakes her head to clear it, as if it were so simple to rid herself of such troubling thoughts, and reminds herself that she does love her mother, she does, even if she is angry now.  Focusing on this will not do her any good, when they need to work together, now, with the stakes so high as they are. 

There will be time enough later to argue.  For now, her mother is just that, her mother, a woman to whom Fareeha feels she owes some loyalty, even if she cannot quite come to terms with the other roles Ana has held in her lifetime, and it is hard to stay angry at her, when she is asleep, and seems so very, very tired, made so by the things she has seen and the things she has done.  There are a few things they must discuss, in order to better be able to work with one another, but they are mostly impersonal things, not so important as questions of identity, feelings of betrayal, are just ground rules, hierarchy, tactics, the sort of things Fareeha would establish with anyone else.  Everything else can wait.

Her mother is not dead, is here, now, and Fareeha has _time_ to tell her all the things she is thinking of, has time to figure things out, and to make things right, if such a thing is possible.

That was the hardest part for Fareeha, when her mother ‘died,’ the suddenness of it, the way in which one day, her mother was there, and the next, she was gone.  That is, of course, how death always works, Fareeha has seen enough of it to know.  One moment a person is a person, is _something,_ has a light in their eyes that indicates that they are there and the next they are gone.  There is no slow transition, no gradual slide towards death, just a flick of a switch.  Alive/dead.  Person/body.  On/off.

Perhaps it is naïve of Fareeha to assume that she and her mother will have more time, because Ana is here, now, alive again, because could she not die, in the course of the next two weeks?  Could Fareeha not also?  There is always that chance.  All it takes is one mistake, one moment, one change of one’s luck, and the switch flips.

On.

They should talk when Ana wakes, need to discuss how it is, now, that Fareeha is feeling, the effect that this deception has had on her, the ways in which it has violated her agency and pushed her into a position where she is forced to make decisions she will not feel comfortable about, no matter the outcome.  It is not fair to her that this has happened, and she needs Ana to know that, to consider how it is she is thinking and feeling before things get worse. 

If her mother were truly her commander, things would be different, but Ana herself made such impossible, ensured personally that her application of Overwatch was rejected, and so such is not their relationship, will never be.  Her mother is her mother, and they may work together now, but neither of them is in the military any longer, so they have no ranks to fall back on. 

But maybe Fareeha should be thankful, for that, should be grateful that her mother spared her having been in Overwatch, knowing what was coming.  If she knew, already, that she would have to go underground, that Overwatch was going to be shut down, and its members be made criminals, then perhaps she spared Fareeha.  Even if it was still painful, Fareeha still has her reputation, her career, can still see the coverage of the body parts recovered from the rubble of the headquarters being identified through DNA and _not_ attach a face to the names, can forget soon after she hears and not think _her wife had a baby on the way_ or _he was retiring in two weeks_ or _they only just got the big promotion they had been dreaming of._ Instead, she can turn off the holovid and not think of all the lives, like switches, as the names change, lists of the dead and the injured and the missing being altered, people on and off and on and off and on and off and off and off and off and off and—

Off.

Her mother deserves her rest.  When she wakes, there will be much to discuss, but for now, Fareeha will not take from her the peace of sleep. 

There is an old blanket at the foot of the couch, crocheted by Fareeha’s grandmother, not her mother’s mother but her father’s.  It is soft, and slightly worn, and very out of place in the room, colors the soft pinks and purples Fareeha preferred in her youth.  Nothing about it could be further from her mother’s taste, but night has fallen, now, and the temperature drops fast.  If her mother were to catch cold, it would be terribly inconvenient.  Or, so she says to justify this action to herself, to explain away the concern she feels even now for a woman who has done things that Fareeha considers unforgivable.

Satisfied that, at the very least, her mother will not freeze to death, Fareeha leaves the room, slips into her bedroom, closes the door softly as she can, to avoid waking her mother.  Best that she sleeps through this part, after all.

For the most part, Fareeha’s bedroom is neat.  Even with her possessions having doubled in number following her mother’s ‘demise,’ Fareeha does not own many things, so it is easy to keep it that way.  One or two things are left out, a tube of lipstick here on her vanity, a bracelet she inherited on her nightstand from when she crawled into bed without removing it, but most everything else is either in her rather limited storage, or in its proper place.

Her closet is the same, although it holds far more boxes than her room, things of her mother’s she could not bring herself to dispose of, yet, but has no good use for, or place to display.  If she remembers correctly, her mother’s comm unit, the one they recovered in place of her body, should be in the top right corner, in one of the smallest of boxes, where Fareeha can avoid looking at it and thinking about it both. 

Now, it should not be so painful, knowing that Ana is alive, but it _is_ , somehow, the memory still raw of being told there was an incident, that her mother had gone missing behind enemy lines, and the hope she had held being snuffed so abruptly when three days later her effects were recovered, and she was declared KIA.  It seemed sudden to Fareeha, then, seemed hasty, and it still does now, but knowing that her mother was alive, that this was all a cover up to ensure that no one would look for, it makes more sense.

Making sense does not make the memory less painful, yet.  In fact, with the freshness of that information, the old wound is reopened, the pain raw, again, of thinking she had lost her mother, only for that to turn out to not be true.  She can see as her hands are shaking as she pulls down the box, brushes off the thin layer of dust it has accumulated in the past months, and sets it on the bed.  At top, her mother’s funeral program, followed by a scrapbook her mother made whilst in Overwatch, filled with faces Fareeha has seen on the holovids increasingly in the past few months, dead, missing, or traitors.  There is a single old teacup, painted by a younger Fareeha one Mother’s Day, and her mother’s dog tags from during the Crisis, the old ones, with her father’s name and address still on them.  A few other memories are contained therein, all too painful to for Fareeha to want to see, yet, but at the very bottom is her Overwatch comm unit, a small disk with the old insignia on it, and this she pulls out and sets on the bed, before returning the box to the closet.

The unit is not active, Fareeha having turned it off shortly after receiving it, not interested in seeing or knowing what the last words her mother wrote were, not just yet, but it is simple enough to power back on.  Most people would not be able to do anything with it, but Fareeha is authorized to access Overwatch communications systems given her years spent living on or near bases as a child, and knows all of her mother’s passwords, too, provided Ana has not changed them in the past decade or so.  She will not be able to access any classified information, particularly since Athena has been shut down, not knowing the authorization codes for such, but basic messaging functions?  That she can manage.

A moment, two.  Fareeha considers the fact that, with Athena down, the device may no longer work at all.

A flicker and then, success, the device projecting a log in screen. 

Her mother’s password is long, and it takes Fareeha three tries to type it correctly, but she does, and the device must still work, on some level, because it shows new activity.  Overwatch must have lied, too, about Athena having been shut down, for there is her emblem in the corner twisting and reforming several times per minute as she connects.

Quickly, Fareeha hits the button to stop the AI from loading any further, not at all interested in explaining to UN authorities why she was accessing her mother’s old contact book.  Right now, just by turning the device on, Fareeha has not done anything wrong, but as soon as she calls Mercy she will be in violation of international law, both of them will be.

Hopefully, no one is monitoring calls from devices in the possession of dead soldiers.  Otherwise, it will be rather difficult to explain what it is that led her to do this, power up her mother’s old comm unit to contact the only other high-ranking Overwatch officer in the city.

Or, rather, the only high-ranking officer.  As seeing has her mother was officially listed as KIA, Ana theoretically no longer has a rank, would need to undergo a thorough psych eval and debriefing before her rank were reinstated, ensuring that in the time she was MIA she did not defect, was not reprogrammed.

Which, Fareeha cannot discount, might have been the case.  But it does not _seem_ likely, even with the things her mother has said which seem off to her, and Fareeha would rather take the risk of believing her mother and being betrayed again than ignore Ana, and have that come back to haunt her.  After all, her mother will accomplish what it is she sets out to do with or without Fareeha, and at least this way Fareeha can mitigate some of the damage Ana might otherwise do.  Already, she is going to prevent at least one kidnapping.

Or, when she calls, she will.  Hopefully.  If Mercy even believes her.

Well, there is nothing to be believed or not if Fareeha does not try to contact her, so she takes one last deep breath, calms her face…

…And remembers that she is still wearing pyjamas, and that she wants to seem at least somewhat professional for this, so that she is not instantly dismissed as being simply paranoid or, worse, joking.

Another ten minutes, and Fareeha has thrown on her Helix uniform, brushed her hair, and sat herself down in a chair, ensuring that it is a relatively blank patch of wall behind her, and not her bed.  Much better.

Now, at least, she looks believable.  Hopefully she will sound it, too.

What, exactly, she will say, she does not quite know, has a vague idea of how she is going to present this, but knows, too, that if she practices too much then it will be all the more obvious that she is lying.  She is never a terribly convincing liar, but rehearsed she is at her worst.  Best just to dive right in.  At worst, Mercy does not believe her, and she simply has to go along with her mother’s original plan.

With any luck, it will not come to that.  Fareeha really, truly does not believe that she has the temperament necessary to kidnap someone, and does not know where they would keep Mercy, if they decided to do such.  Not her condo, surely.  She hardly has the necessary supplies for unlawfully imprisonment of anyone, and thinks that there are far too many potential points of egress, should Mercy attempt an escape.  And, frankly, she has other, less practical concerns, such as the fact that she is not keen on cleaning up human waste, but does not have a second bathroom _without_ a large window to escape out of.

With any luck, it will not e an issue, and Mercy will pick up.

One ring, two, and no reply.  Three, four, and still nothing.

A fifth, a sixth, and _Shit,_ Fareeha thinks, _I’m going to have to leave a message._

A seventh ring, and she is about to select the option to record a brief message when, abruptly, she remembers why that is such a terrible idea.

It is evidence.  If she kidnaps Mercy, or if the United Nations decides to prosecute her for violating the PETRAS Act, or if her mother _does_ turn out to have been reprogrammed, and this is all some terrible plot that she has been roped into, then this will surely be used against her.

The text on the holo flashes again, prompting Fareeha to either hang up or to record something, and she has another moment of indecision.  If she does not want to have to kidnap Mercy, then surely it would be better to leave a message, better to at least _try_ to contact her, and that is the right thing to do, but the potential for such a thing to be used as evidence against herself is a threat, too, to Fareeha’s own future.

Is it worth it, protecting her own interests at the cost of someone else?   Is she willing to put her own safety over the freedom of another person, to choose for themself whether or not they want to be a part of this?

Of course, Mercy will not have a choice, not really, no matter what, will only have the illusion of one, if Fareeha can get through to her, for if she declines then she will simply find herself kidnapped, anyway.  So, really, Fareeha is not going to be giving her a choice, if she can get through to her, and if she is not granting Mercy any say, really, then why would it be worth the risk to herself?

Is this what her mother’s job was always like?  All too easily, she finds herself able to justify self-preservation over the choice that _might_ make another person happier, provided that Mercy does go along with what it is Fareeha asks of her.  One is a guarantee, protecting herself, and the other is a high level of personal risk for only the _hope_ that a virtual stranger will do what she wants.

Why would she risk herself for that person?  Why would anyone, with the stakes this high?  Violation of the PETRAS Act would see Fareeha brought before an international criminal court, the domain of terrorists and war criminals, not people like herself, who has behaved with a great deal of principle for the rest of her life, has held herself and others to a high moral standard.  Surely, that cannot be worth the risk.

Yet, she still considers leaving the message, still thinks, nonetheless, that it would be better to do so, would be kinder, would be the _right_ thing to do, because even if Mercy will not truly get to decide whether she is going to help them or not, it might make this process easier for her emotionally, if she thinks that she has a choice, and agrees to help Fareeha.  It is only right that she tries her hardest to avoid having to kidnap another person, to inflict upon them the trauma of such a thing, the violation of their autonomy that will occur.

That, Fareeha thinks, is the real difference between herself and her mother.  Ana is safe, always, does what she can to protect herself.  Given the fact that she may or may not be the only person left alive with the knowledge necessary to prevent another Omnic Crisis, such self-preservation makes sense, but there is a point at which it becomes immoral, nonetheless.  Nothing is stopping Ana from telling Fareeha how to stop another Crisis, or from her telling another former member of Overwatch, if it is necessary that said person have access to Overwatch resources.  She need not remain the only person with that knowledge, and even if she does, Fareeha does not know that it gives her the right to do all that she has done.

Where is the line?  What is unacceptable for her to do, in the name of protecting herself?  When has the damage she has done to other people become too much to forgive?  For this _is_ damaging to Fareeha, making her believe that her mother died, and then trying to talk her into betraying every principle she has ever held, rather than simply revealing herself as alive to an old colleague and all but guaranteeing Mercy works with them.  And kidnapping, rather than uncloaking and having an honest conversation?  That cannot be right.

Yet it is what her mother is doing, and Fareeha, by not protesting it, has become complicit.  She has to leave a message, she _has_ to.  If she really believes that what she is doing is right, then she will be willing to defend herself in court, and willing to face the consequences.  Better to be judged wrongly by society than to do what she knows in her heart to be wrong, and to have to live with herself afterwards.

If she became the sort of woman her mother is now, Fareeha knows she could never forgive herself.  Always, she has prided herself on doing what is right, what is good, on upholding justice and keeping the peace.  Never could she become the sort of woman who is blasé about a kidnapping, who authorized torture.

Or, she could, because her mother could.  She could, and _that_ is why she cannot do this, now, cannot take the first step down that slippery slope towards doing what she thinks is best for herself, rather than what is best for the rest of the world.  The Ana that Fareeha knew died a hero, and this woman?  She may be Fareeha’s mother, but Fareeha does not have to accept her, does not have to forgive her for the things she has done, for she is no longer the woman Fareeha once believed she knew, no longer the mother she idolized, if indeed Ana ever was that person she presented herself as at all. 

It would be easy, for Fareeha to just hang up, to leave no message, to decide that she must kidnap Mercy, rather than risking the liability of having left her the message, the trouble of convincing her mother to reveal to the doctor that she is alive.  It would be easy, and that is precisely why she cannot do it.

If her mother is truly a good person, she will understand, and if not?  Then Fareeha does not need her approval, after all. 

She reaches for the button.  Leave a message? says the holo, Yes or No.  Without hesitation, now she reaches for yes and—

“Fareeha?” her mother’s voice is sharp beside her, and Fareeha barely suppresses the urge to jump, as if she had been caught doing something naughty, “What are you doing?”

Her mother has always moved quietly, and so it is entirely possible that she had no intention of sneaking up on Fareeha, who was very much caught up in her own thoughts, and not paying a good deal of attention to her surroundings, but given the context of the decision that Fareeha just made, she is disinclined to presume innocence on her mother’s part.  I’m just trying to contact Mercy.  No need for you to sneak around.”

Her mother’s tone is patronizing, and slightly stern, as if Fareeha had not thought of this already, “You shouldn’t leave a message, then.  If she—”

“I know, Mum,” Fareeha says, and she does, knows very well why her mother would think that, “But—”

“Good,” Her mother says, not waiting for her to finish, reaches over her shoulder and jabs at the _No_ button.  “Now that that’s settled…”

“It’s _not_ settled,” Fareeha stands as she says this, turns to look down at her mother, crosses her arms.  “We need to have a serious talk.”

If her mother is surprised by this, she does not show it on her face, does not even step backwards as Fareeha stands, putting them rather near to one another.  “Do we?”  She is not curious, from her tone, instead this is a challenge.  What she wants, in asking this, is for Fareeha to back down, but she ought to know, by now, that this does not work on Fareeha anymore, has not in many, many years.

“Yes,” Fareeha says, and then, “You can’t keep doing stuff like this.”

“Like what?”  Her mother’s voice is sharp, “Stopping you from incriminating yourself?”

Of course her mother would see it that way, as helping Fareeha, as doing what is _best_ for her, as if Ana has ever known what is best for Fareeha.  All she wants is what is _safest,_ and she never takes into account what would make Fareeha the happiest.  For a mother to be protective of their child is normal, of course, is natural, but there is a line to be drawn somewhere, and the two of them have never quite been in agreement about where to draw it. 

Perhaps a part of this is cultural; Ana grew up here, in Egypt, where family and community are important, and Fareeha mostly grew up in Canada with her father, where individual choice is considered more important.  Neither of them, Fareeha knows, has ever been wholly right in their approach, they have both failed, time and again, to meet in the middle, but today, on this issue, Fareeha feels that she truly has a moral high ground.  Her mother has _no_ right to place protecting Fareeha from potential legal consequences over not kidnapping another person, particularly a person with a reputation for charitable works and pacifism.  That goes beyond being overprotective, or a cultural difference in what is and is not an acceptable level of parental control, and is instead just wrong.

“I get to decide whether or not I want to take that risk, Mum,” Fareeha says, not accusing, yet, just firm.  “I’m an adult, and I’m perfectly capable of facing the consequences of my own actions.”

“You say that now,” her mother tells her, “But if I’d let you leave that message and you got arrested then—”

“Then that would be my fault,” Fareeha says, “Not yours.”

Although, now that Fareeha thinks about it, if she gets arrested then it is, in fact, at least _partially_ Ana’s fault, because were it not for her mother being here, were it not for her plan, then Fareeha would not be in a position to be considering violating the PETRAS Act at all, let alone _kidnapping_ anyone.  That, at least, she will not fault her mother for, however, because it is not as if Ana sought Fareeha out, is not as if she roped her unwittingly into violating international law in that manner.  In fact, her mother likely did not intend to be caught by her at all, in the Temple of Anubis, and so Fareeha will not blame her for that much.  It would be unfair, and she has more than enough to complain about already, besides.

Such as this: the fact that her mother still, evidently, does not understand why Fareeha might, possibly, have any objection to the fact that she is not being given a choice in whether or not to take her own risks, does not object to kidnapping Mercy, rather than giving her a chance to work with them willingly, did not object to leaving Fareeha in the dark about the fact that she was still alive, meaning that Fareeha has, unwittingly, been an accessory after the fact to her mother’s continued evasion of international authorities, whilst committing collusion under the terms outlined in the PETRAS Act.

“And if I think it’s the wrong choice, Fareeha?”  Her mother might be asking a good faith question, were she anyone else, sounds _almost_ pleading, but Fareeha has had this argument more than enough times with Ana before, and does not for a moment believe that her mother could possibly think that this tactic will work.  She will plead, and then she will grow stern, and then she will be angry, and then resigned.  _So be it, Fareeha_ , her mother has told her too many times, _It is out of my hands.  Inshallah you’ll find your way back to me._ “What then?  Do you expect me to sit by and watch you throw your life away?”

“Why not?” Fareeha asks her, and means it, because this phrasing is not new, _throwing her life away_ , and she has heard it a thousand times before, “You’ve been doing a pretty good job of it the past eight years.”

“What?” Ana seems genuinely taken aback, for some reason, as if they have not trod this path many times over the years, have not been having this same argument time and again since Fareeha declared, aged sixteen, that she intended to enlist, post-graduation, and to seek entrance into Overwatch thereafter.

“You told me the same before I enlisted,” Fareeha says, “But when did I ever once hear from you?  After that last fight we had—you were just gone, Mum.  No calls, no messages, no birthday visits.  Nothing.” 

“Fareeha—” her mother starts, but Fareeha is not nearly finished speaking, yet, is not going to let her mother try and reason this away, not now.  She is not staying calm, like she planned, but she thinks she has a right to be angry.  Her mother for too long used her gentleness, her reluctance to argue, in order to get her way in arguments, and Fareeha learned, after she enlisted, not to fall for such. 

“No.  You don’t get to speak yet, I’m not done.”  A moment of silence, a nod from her mother, a small step back, and out of Fareeha’s space.  Fareeha takes a breath and continues, in truth no calmer than before, “Not only did you not _look out for_ me, you weren’t in my life at all!  And now you tell me you can’t ‘sit idly by’ and expect me to believe that?  Bullshit!  If that were the case, you would’ve contacted me even once.  But you didn’t.  You didn’t, and now you don’t just—you don’t just get to waltz back into my life and pretend you’ve never done anything wrong, or that you have my best interests at heart, because you _don’t._ You want me to listen to you, that’s all, and if I don’t then I’m—then it’s like I’m not even worth being in your life.  And I told myself I wasn’t gonna be mad, that we were gonna discuss this rationally but I—I can’t.  I _am_ mad.  I hurt, I’m still hurting.  I don’t know if I’m ever going to stop.  And then on top of it all you died!  You were just gone!  And I wasn’t going to ever be able to see you again, to speak to you, to tell you that I’m sorry, that you were right about some things, that I should’ve tried talking to you, too, after I shipped out but that—that I’d do it again.  Because I would.  I’m happy, Mum.  Without you.”

Another pause, and what Fareeha expected was that her mother would protest this, would argue back that it was Fareeha’s fault, too, for neither of them ever contacted one another, or find some way to say that this is different, somehow, from sitting by all those years, but she does not, seems sad, instead of angry, and Fareeha thinks she sees, in her eyes, regret—a shocking thing.  Ana has never admitted to regretting anything in her life, not once.

“I’m sorry,” her mother tells her, and it shocks Fareeha.  “I didn’t realize that you—”

“You didn’t _realize_?”  Any sympathy she felt for her mother, on seeing how genuinely regretful she looked, evaporates in a moment.  “How could you possibly—we didn’t speak to each other for years, Mum!  How did you think that felt?”

How would anyone have thought Fareeha would feel about such a thing?  She knows, of course, that she too played a role in their silence, and that they were both adults, but her mother is far older, and should have been the more mature one.  It should not have taken her dying for _Fareeha_ to be the one bridging the gap between them, now, and being willing to work alongside her mother, who still, after everything, did not seek her out, did nothing to apologize, or even let Fareeha know that she was alive. 

Another pause, and her mother runs a hand over her face pulls it down, and shakes her head, before seeming to come to some sort of resolution.  Fareeha cannot imagine what it is she is going to say, but a part of her wants to cut her mother off at the pass, for no explanation she offers could possibly be a good one, no reason could ever satisfy Fareeha, not now.

“I don’t have a good answer for you, Fareeha,” her mother tells her, and the honesty, as well as the genuine regret in her mother’s tone is completely unexpected, but also very welcome.  This is far, far better than any of the excuses Fareeha imagined, is better than any attempt to deflect blame, or distract from the matter at hand, is _much_ better than an attempt at an apology, years too late.  It is the truth, for once.  That much, Fareeha can feel.

“I don’t either,” Fareeha admits, does not know if she means for her own actions or her mother’s.  Looking back, now, there is no good answer for what it is they did to one another with their silence, with their stubbornness, with their pride.  What has either of them to show for the pain they caused one another?  What was gained?

That sits there between them, for a moment, the realization that all of their pain has come to naught, in the end, that after all of their arguing, all of their silence, neither of them can say what it was for, and neither feels as if they won.  For years, Fareeha wondered what this moment would be like, when they could sit on the other side of their conflict, look back, and try to make sense of it.  She imagined it a thousand different ways, thought it would be tender, thought it would be painful, thought it would be sad, but she never imagined it like this, so _empty,_ no satisfaction or resolution to be had, after all, just the knowledge that it happened, and that the both of them cannot say why, or even if they would do it again.

Fareeha was never foolish enough to expect a eat and tidy end to her and her mother’s conflict, but she expected more, somehow, expected something sharper, stronger, louder, not this, a quiet acknowledgement that there are no good answers, never will be any.  It is an end, but not a true resolution.

How could she have expected one, when she did not know her own reasons for doing what it was she did, anymore, cannot find a good reason, now, to have never contacted her mother, in all the years they spent not speaking to each other, has not been able to muster one since Ana ‘died?’  If ever she had a real reason, it seems petty an insignificant now, in the face of the potential that one or both of them might have died without the matter ever having been resolved.  What could have been worth their last words having been spoken in anger?

Nothing, surely.

Nothing, save for this: the matter of whether or not Fareeha has a choice in what it is she does.

That is _still_ the problem, the matter at hand, that her mother is placing _safety_ over other’s ability to choose for themselves what risks are acceptable  With their previous conflict, Fareeha can admit that both of them went too far, in not speaking for so long, that once all was said and done, once Fareeha had enlisted, had seen war for herself, they ought to have accepted that it was over.  Yes, Ana should have apologized, when she saw how well Fareeha did in the military, should have realized that Fareeha was never hers to control, but Fareeha should have apologized also, for her mother was right: Fareeha had no idea what it was she was signing up for, was not so prepared as she thought, and regardless of the fact that she thinks she did what was best by enlisting, would do it again, she was wrong to dismiss her mother when she insisted that war would change Fareeha, would hurt her.  It did, it _did_ , and Ana was right about that, even if she is not right, now.

And that is the difference.  Ana was right about something, last time, but now, she is unquestionably in the wrong.  It will not do for Fareeha to let herself be sidetracked by an apology, so many years too late, and to miss what is happening _now_.

“I didn’t mean to hurt you, Habibti,” her mother says, and she _sounds_ genuine, even if Fareeha cannot possibly believe that, because she certainly meant to hurt _Ana_ when she refused to call, after their last fight, knew that the silence would pain her mother, “I must’ve known I would but—I can’t have known it would go this far.” 

Her phrasing is interesting, as if it were not _her_ who did such things.  Fareeha understands the sentiment, certainly, has trouble placing herself as the woman who once fought with her mother, who she was before she enlisted, finds that the years have put so much distance between them that her actions feel as if they belong to someone else.  Yet, Fareeha still claims responsibility for what it is she has done, and her mother seems to be almost sidestepping it, acknowledging with her words what was done but not seeming to truly _feel_ the weight of her actions.  An interesting thing, and not something Fareeha feels quite comfortable calling her mother on.  How could she phrase it?  Instead, she says, “I can believe that about not talking to me, maybe, but faking your death, Mum?  You must’ve known that that would—that I would’ve been—it was devastating.”

“I know,” her mother says, “I know, but we hadn’t spoken in so long… How could I have told you?  What would you have had me say?”

“ _Anything!_ ” And that is the truth, something is always better than nothing, in circumstances such as theirs.  A weak attempt at reconciliation might have felt insulting, but it was better than condemning them to the finality of no resolution at all.  “If you’d thought even just for a minute about how I feel then—”

“I _do_ care about how you feel, Fareeha,” her mother insists but Fareeha knows better, by now.

“If that were true,” says she, “You’d let me choose for myself how I want to handle the situation with Mercy.” 

“No,” her mother says, “That isn’t the same at all.  It’s—”

“It _is_ the same, Mum, because it’s part of a pattern.  You think you know what’s best for everyone, what’s safest, and we all have to go along with it, because you said so, even if—no matter how much we argue.  It has to be your way.”

A frown, from her mother, hurt but also considering, as if this somehow managed to escape her notice.  “Is that how you see this?” she asks Fareeha.

“Isn’t it what it is?  You wouldn’t let me enlist because it was too dangerous, you made sure my application to transfer to Overwatch got rejected and maybe—maybe—I can let that one go, because you knew what was coming, with the PETRAS Act, but then there’s this, too, you say I can help you here, but you won’t even trust me to judge a risk on my own, decide for me whether or not I’m allowed to leave a message and at least _try_ to contact the doctor before we kidnap her.  Because you may be okay with that—with kidnapping—but I’m not!  If I have to, I’ll make peace with it, because it’s for the greater good but—”

“But that _isn’t_ the same, Fareeha,” her mother says, not sharp exactly, but firm, stern.  “You’re right that I was wrong not to let you enlist, because I should have had more faith in your competence, and ability to choose things for yourself, and you might be right about your Overwatch application but not letting you leave a message for Doctor Ziegler has nothing to do with that.  I don’t doubt your abilities.  You’ve more than proven yourself, and if I did have doubts, I wouldn’t be working with you right now.” 

A fair enough point, Fareeha supposes, “But—”

“But nothing.  It’s not _you_ I’m worried about if you do that, it’s the mission as a whole.  If she doesn’t believe you, or doesn’t want to be involved, it’s a risk to our whole mission.  _She’s_ the one I don’t trust.” 

“I really don’t think she’s the type to—” Fareeha starts, stops, “I mean, even you always said she’s a good person.”

“You don’t know her like I do,” Ana tells her, solemn, “She does what she believes is right, yes, but that doesn’t mean that what she believes is going to be anything close to what we think.  If she’s decided that the PETRAS Act is right, and just, she may turn us in on principle.  Oh, she’ll say she hates doing it, and the guilt will eat at her for a while, but it won’t _stop_ her.  Nothing will.”

“That’s a very…” Fareeha isn’t sure how to say this politely, “Uncharitable view.”

“It isn’t,” Ana insists, “If we hadn’t been at odds so often, I’d admire her for it.  Most people aren’t so married to their morals.”

“But didn’t her parents die in the first Crisis?”  Fareeha is certain she heard something about it, in one of a million Overwatch press pieces, or perhaps in one of Mercy’s own interviews.  “Surely if she were going to bend the rules for anything, stopping another Crisis would be it.”

“I don’t think…” her mother starts, stops, seems to reconsider.  “It isn’t very likely, but if you could convince her that absolutely no one else were better suited to stopping the Crisis then we are then yes, maybe, she _might_ consider clemency, if only for the duration of the mission.  Still, she’d likely turn us in as soon as we’ve finished.”

“So we just have to make sure that we have a head start, then,” Angela is certainly welcome to _try_ to turn the both of them in, but her mother has not been faking her death so successfully these past months by accident, and Fareeha is certain that, if she wanted to, she could keep up.

“It isn’t that simple,” her mother says with a terrible sort of finality.

“No?” Fareeha asks, “I could just go with you and—”

“I don’t want you throwing your whole life away for me, Fareeha,” her mother tells her.  “You’d have to leave _everything_ behind, all that you’ve worked for.  And we’d be alone, the two of us.  You don’t—you might think you want that, but you don’t.”

So much for her mother respecting her ability to make her own decisions.

“Mum,” Fareeha says, “We _just_ went over this.  I’m the only one who gets to choose whether or not something is an acceptable risk for myself.”

A frown from her mother, very serious, then, “There are things you don’t know about where I’ve been—what I’ve been doing.  You think it would be wrong of me to kidnap Dr. Ziegler and force her to work with us?  It would be just as wrong of me to let you go with me without telling you what were really happening.”

“So _tell me_ ,” Fareeha says, because really, it is that simple.  Maybe what her mother is doing really has been so terrible, and she would not want to go, would not consider it worth the sacrifice, to finally be in Overwatch, but she very much doubts that.  And if it is, does she not have a right to know? 

A considerable pause. 

“If it were my decision,” her mother says, “I would.  But unfortunately there are things I don’t have authorization to say, and—”

“Who could possibly get to decide that.  You outranked—” everyone, except, “Wait, Jack’s alive?”

Genuine confusion from her mother for a moment, and then, “I never said that.”

Fareeha wants to say _You didn’t have to_ , but that is not the subject at hand, really.  “I still don’t think, even if it is a risk to us, that we should just kidnap Mercy.  If anything, that makes her _more_ likely to betray us, doesn’t it?”

“I suppose so,” Ana says, “And I’m not particularly keen on kidnapping, either, but what else would you have me do?”

“Reveal yourself to her,” Fareeha insists, again, “Tell her you’re alive, if she won’t talk to me.”

“We’ve been over why this is a bad idea.  She’ll—”

“Turn us in?” Fareeha half laughs at that, but not in amusement, but disbelief, “You said it yourself, she’s probably going to do that anyway, and you’re already certain you’re going on the run again after this.  So why not?”

“Because it’s a risk.”

“This whole operation is a risk, isn’t it?  And anyway, if you meet her in person, it’s not like she can _prove_ you were there, alive.  Who would believe her?”  Fareeha would not have, just two days ago, before her mother was there before her in the flesh.  In fact, she half believes now that this is all some incredibly detailed dream. 

“If it would make you feel better, when we eventually have to kidnap her anyway—”

“It would!”

“—Then I could try contacting her myself, even if she’s going to say no.  But I’m doing this for you, Habibti, not because I think it would convince _her._ ”

“Thank you,” Fareeha says, and she hopes she does not sound as surprised as she feels.  In truth, she did not expect to win this argument with her mother, only knew that she could not live with the guilt if she did not at least _try._

“But if that’s going to happen, then you can’t leave a message.”  Fareeha should have known there would be a catch.  “When things go south, I don’t want her to be able to tie this back to you.”

“Okay,” Fareeha agrees, “I’ll just—”

A noise from the comm unit in the corner, nearly forgotten about in the conversation, and Mercy’s image appears above it, along with the words Accept and Decline.  A call.

“Do you want to—” Fareeha turns around, but her mother is already halfway out of the room, “…Take this?”

“No,” her mother says, not turning around and continuing out of the room, “If she doesn’t believe you, then call me in—but she’ll be much more agreeable if she still thinks I’m dead.”

“But you said—” Fareeha starts, moving towards her mother.

“ _If_ she wouldn’t speak with you, Fareeha,” Ana says, “I said _if._ I told you already why it’s best she’s left in the dark.”  She did, and Fareeha understands her point, but this whole thing would be easier if she could just tell the truth.

“You did but—”

“Don’t miss the call, Habibti,” her mother says, and closes the door firmly in Fareeha’s face, leaving her alone with the still ringing comm unit.

 _Damn it_ , Fareeha thinks, and hopes her annoyance does not show on her face as she hurries over to the phone and hits Accept, _I should’ve known better than to make a deal with Mum._

 _Call connecting,_ says the screen.

Hopefully, her potential for deception has greatly increased sometime in the last twenty-four hours.  If not, she’s fucked.

_Connected._

Too late to turn back now.  Fareeha takes a deep breath, looks the other woman in the eyes, and says, “Hello?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> next chapter i finally get to add a third character LKAJSDLKAJSDFA can u believe it? only took me 40k words
> 
> hopefully u are enjoying this, and if so, def lmk!! at 90k words so far (obvs not all posted yet) its the longest single work ive written since i worked on one wip from age 11-13, lmao


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> in which we finally meet a third character. hooray?

As far as first impressions go, Fareeha has certainly made a number of unpleasant ones.  It is not that she is a rude person, or that she is bad at talking to people, it is simply that she is not what people _expect_ , when they hear the surname Amari.  When people think of her, they imagine that she will be like her mother, somehow, will be more heroic or have that same cutting wit, will give the smile that says yes, she has saved the world, and she knows it.

Normally, people come around to Fareeha, sooner or later.  She is not her mother, and she never will be, but she has her own merits, and thinks she is much nicer, besides.  In any case, just because she is not so openly demanding as Ana, not so instantly commanding of respect, does not mean that she is not, herself, a natural leader, only that her approach is different, and her humor may not be so sharp, and may not show when she is on duty, but she can be funny, too, when she wants to be, is not so serious as she often seems at first.

As for heroism, well, Fareeha rather thinks that she has that part down, too, it is simply that her own approach to saving lives is more heavily focused on _preventing_ world ending catastrophes entirely, not stepping in when things have already gone to shit. 

So usually, Fareeha does not worry too much when she makes an introduction and the person to whom she is speaking seems immediately disappointed, somehow.  It hurts, of course, to know that she will always be measured against her mother, and often found wonting, but there is nothing she can do about that, and no use dwelling upon that which she cannot change.  By now, her skin is thick enough that she has come to expect, and accept, such reactions, knowing that given time, she will prove most people wrong.  She is every inch the hero her mother is, just in a different way.

Now, however, it is terribly inconvenient to her.  She is meant to be _saving_ Mercy from being kidnapped, which means that she needs to gain her trust, and that is, evidently, going to be difficult, because the first thing the other woman says, pointed and sharp in an accent stronger than Fareeha has come to expect, from the holos, says:

“You aren’t Ana.”

“Good eye,” Fareeha says, on autopilot, the same sort of deflection she usually uses day to day, and immediately regrets it when the other woman’s face grows sourer, if anything.

“Who _are_ you?” she demands, not a hint of amusement to be found on her face.

“Lieutenant Amari with Helix Security International.”  Better, Fareeha thinks, to be formal now, than to try and win Mercy over with charm.  Clearly, she is not in the mood for it.

“Lieutenant Amari,” Mercy’s voice is considering.

“I’m, um, Ana’s daughter?”  Usually, people recognize her as soon as she gives her last name, and she thinks her tattoo, newly minted, ought to help with this.

“I know that,” Mercy snaps, “But what are you doing calling me on her comm?  It shouldn’t be active.”

Shit.  Here comes the worst part, the first lie.  Fareeha may not be _good_ at lying, but she does know a thing or two about it, and knows that the first part to any lie is the most important.  Once you have ensnared someone, it is only a matter of keeping them in your grasp, but the beginning of a series of lies?  That has to catch someone.

“She had a spare,” Fareeha says, somewhat lamely, and rushes to add, hoping that she is not too conspicuous by speaking so quickly, “Specifically for this, in fact.”  She needs Mercy to be curious as to what this is about, not to dismiss her offhand because it seems like Fareeha is calling for less than pressing reasons.

“For?”

People do not like to be offered up explanations they did not ask for.  Volunteering too much information is, in its own way, suspicious.  But Mercy has asked her this, so Fareeha launching into a slightly long-winded explanation ought to not seem too out of place.  Hopefully.

“Contacting you.  Well, not you specifically.  But someone, if things went wrong with the Anubis AI.”

“Wrong?”  Mercy’s voice is concerned, and serious, but still somewhat suspicious, “Wrong how?”

 _Fuck._ Fareeha does not know that, did not ask, all she knows is that she needs someone with knowledge of the workings of the chronal accelerator, and that such understanding is thoroughly outside of the realm of her expertise.  Ever the good soldier, she did not ask too many questions about such, and now she is regretting that.  “Did she tell you how the God Programs were contained, in the Crisis?”

“No,” Mercy says, “I don’t think anyone outside the original Strike Team knew.  The UN might, now, or people in it—Petras, maybe.  But I’m a doctor, it’s not exactly my field of expertise.”

“Mine either,” Fareeha admits, “But she knew,” and this much is true, and much easier to sell, “She knew something was going to happen, you know.  Or, I think she did.  And she told me what to look for, and that if certain things started happening… Well, she told me to contact Liao, but they’re gone.  Or Winston, but I can’t exactly fly him in.  You were kinda the last resort.”

“Flattering,” says Mercy, flatly.  Fareeha does not imagine that she is used to being anyone’s last resort.  “Why so?”

“It has something to do with—I can’t tell you too many details over call, obviously.  This isn’t secure and—”

“It’s _pretty_ secure.  Overwatch’s massive budget wasn’t entirely wasted.”

“…And Overwatch is shut down, now, and I guarantee nothing has been updated since everyone was put on mandatory leave after the explosion at HQ.  We’re talking _months_ of new vulnerabilities.  Security expert, remember?” 

This is not entirely true, Overwatch’s information security team was probably considered essential personnel, and Fareeha is also relatively certain the UN has a considerable stake in keeping whatever information is on Overwatch’s servers private, even post-PETRAS Act, but Mercy does not need to know that.  It is a careful half-truth, buying Fareeha time to press her mother for more information before she manages to meet with Mercy in person.

A sigh from Mercy.  “I suppose you would know.”

“Anyway, as I was saying, I can’t give you the full details but… your work on the chronal accelerator will come in handy.”  This is true, too, and so it is easier for Fareeha to say, even if it does not paint a complete picture, is quite deliberately misleading.

“You’re quite certain you can’t call Winston?”  Fareeha cannot tell if Mercy is annoyed by Fareeha asking her to do this, by the fact that Ana did not tell her that this might come to pass, in the future, or the fact that she is going to have to work on this project in particular.  Any of these would be fair, in Fareeha’s eyes.

“It’s time sensitive,” Fareeha says, “And, anyway, it’s _really_ hard to sneak a gorilla through customs.  Especially a talking one.”

For the first time in the entirety of the conversation, Mercy cracks a small smile, “I imagine it would be, yes.”

“Obviously asking a human person, who is already in the same city as me, would be much simpler, and more expedient.”  _Human person?_ she chastises herself, _Way to sound normal and not at all suspicious, Fareeha._

“I can see why that would be the case.”  At least Mercy does not seem concerned by the phrasing, despite how notably odd it was. 

“And, you know, I’d _really_ like this to be over with as quickly as possible, given the dangers presented by the Anubis AI.  The last thing any of us needs is another Crisis, especially now that Overwatch is gone.”  In particular, Fareeha does not know how Egypt would survive being ground zero for a second Crisis.  They are still recovering from the first one, and she does not think that they have the resources to prevent total destruction in a second—which scares her desperately.  Her country’s history spans millennia, and they have endured so much already, it would not be a worthy end, to be so destroyed by something which was brought into the country originally to _help_ them.

A hum of agreement, “I don’t know how much Overwatch could have helped, with the state it was in, but yes, I think avoiding a second Crisis is far preferable to any alternative.”

“So you’re on board?”

“What?  No, I didn’t say that.”  Whatever progress Fareeha felt she made is gone in an instant, as Mercy’s face grows suspicious, again, and cold.  “I’m sorry, Lieutenant Amari.  You seem like a very nice person, but you must think I’m stupid to meet up with a woman claiming to be Ana’s daughter, and help her on some top-secret mission for a now defunct organization, putting me in direct violation of international law, just because you _look like_ my dead boss.  Yes, I know she had a daughter, but frankly, you could be anyone.”

If her mother is right, and there is a god, he must hate Fareeha.  All her life, people have been completely unwilling to divorce any aspect of her existence from her mother, unable to see her as her own person, and now, for the first time, she meets someone who sees her as an entirely different person from Ana, just when she actually _needs_ to use her connection to her mother.  It is a cruel cosmic joke being played upon her right now.

“I assure you,” Fareeha says, “Ana is my mother.”

Mercy’s eyes narrow.  “Then why is your tattoo on the wrong side?”

“It isn’t—Why do you think you’re going to tell _me_ I have Egyptian mythology wrong?”  Fareeha really, truly, hates people who think, because they are very well educated, and have been told their entire lives they are smart, that they know better than her about her own culture.

“I didn’t say anything about the mythology,” Mercy says, “Frankly, I couldn’t care less about all the symbolic shit Captain Amari was always trying to push on us.  Our image wasn’t good either way, in the end.  But I _know_ Ana wore her tattoo on the other side, so if you’re her daughter, then surely…”

Fareeha fights the urge to pinch the bridge of her nose, unable to believe that she is really about to explain this right now.  “Ancient art didn’t have perspective, right?  So people were never drawn head on—their face was always facing in one direction or the other.  Meaning that if a person—or god, in this case—had something on their face as an identifying mark, it’d have to be drawn on both sides, depending which way they were facing, otherwise you’d never recognize them.”

“I see,” Mercy says, and her tone of voice says, _I don’t at all know what you’re getting at._

“So,” Fareeha explains, “There isn’t a _right_ or _wrong_ side to put the Udjat on, because it was drawn both ways.  _I_ chose the side opposite my mother because I got the tattoo after she died, and I thought putting it on her scope eye would—I don’t know, honor her memory, or something?”  Too personal, too fast, even if Ana _is_ really alive, this still stings to talk about.  “Why am I even explaining this to you?”

At that, Mercy softens considerably, seems to sense that the vulnerability, the pain that creeps into Fareeha’s voice when discussing her dead mother is real.  “I’m sorry,” says she, “I shouldn’t have pressed about that.” 

She is an orphan, Fareeha knows, and suddenly she is wondering why she did not use _that_ to try and convince Mercy to help her, the notion of honoring her dead mother one last time.  It would, of course, be unethical, immoral, _wrong_ to use something like that, under normal circumstances, but considering that she is trying to prevent a second Omnic Crisis _and_ avoid kidnapping Mercy, both at once, she thinks it can be forgiven.

“It’s okay,” Fareeha says, “Really.  It’s just—She trusted me with this, you know?  And I don’t want to let her down.”  In fact, Fareeha gets the distinct impression that her mother would be downright pleased if she fails to convince Mercy to work with them, if only because Ana will then be able to tell Fareeha _I told you so,_ but that is not helpful to her, right now, and judging by Mercy’s expression, this angle is working.“And it’s not like it’s just me it hurts, if I screw this up.  It’s a _God Program_.  That could mean another Crisis.”

Naturally, Fareeha is aware that she is laying this on rather thick, but it seems to be something Mercy responds to, thinking she is helping others.  Given her profession, it makes sense, and Fareeha feels a bit gross, preying on someone’s altruism and personal pain like this, but it is better than the alternative.

“If you’re telling the truth,” Mercy is still cautious, guarded, but she sounds like she is at least entertaining the idea that Fareeha might be honest, now, “Then yes, the consequences would be very serious.  By why wouldn’t Ana have warned the rest of us, if that were so?”

“Why did my mother keep anything a secret?” Fareeha says, and rather hopes that Ana cannot hear her, in the next room over. 

This clearly amuses Mercy, “You might have a point, there.  And if she knew… with the way things ended, maybe she was right to keep things quiet as possible.”

“Yeah,” Fareeha says, “That’s why she only told me.  Towards the end I could sense that she knew, you know, that something was coming.”

“Is that why she blocked your application to join Overwatch?” Angela asks, “For show, so no one would know why you ended up guarding the God Program?”

“…Yes,” Fareeha says, rather wishing that she had thought of that excuse herself.  It makes a lot more sense than most of the lies she was considering.  And then, “Wait—you knew she personally blocked my application?”

Fareeha suspected, of course, that Ana had a hand in her rejection, but to have outright stopped her—and _told_ people—her mother is lucky that Fareeha cannot leave the call right now, and give her a piece of her mind.  She thought her mother nudged things in one way or another, not _this!_

“Of course,” Angela says this as if it were obvious.  “She asked my opinion.  Or—that isn’t quite the right way to put this.  She’d already done it, but she wanted to hear from me that she’d done the right thing.”

 _What did you tell her_? Fareeha is not sure she wants to know, and, in any case, she has a bigger concern, “I thought the two of you didn’t get along?”

A frown, deeper this time, “I don’t think that… Your mother was a complicated woman, as I’m sure you know.  I’d like to think that, despite our differences, we respected each other.”

Given what Ana has said these past few days, Fareeha is not entirely certain that tracks, but she can hardly bring that up now, not without giving away the fact that her mother is very much alive, or sounding like she is speaking ill of the dead.

“I felt much the same about her,” Fareeha admits, and this, too, is true, save for the tense.  Despite all that she has learned, in the past 48 hours, she _does_ respect her mother, does not know whom she would be without her.  “I know she only ever did what she thought was right but… she could be hard to love, sometimes.”

“At least you never had to work for her,” Mercy says, and _god_ Fareeha wishes that were true, right about now. 

“I mean,” Fareeha says, “I’m kind of doing that right now.  Executing her instructions left in her will, and all.”

“I can’t say I envy you.”

One more try, “But you could make my life a lot easier, by working with me.”

“I could,” and this time, Mercy seems to be considering it, at least, “But I don’t think… It isn’t safe, with everything going on.  You must understand that.  Former Overwatch agents are turning up dead, and when it comes to violating international law, the UN has proven that they have nothing against entrapment.  If you’re telling the truth—I have a moral obligation, I know, but it’s a big risk, trusting a stranger with something like this.”

“So meet me,” Fareeha says, “Anywhere you want.  I’ll bring proof, and if you turn me down, I won’t ask you again.”  She will not ask because she will be kidnapping Mercy, if it comes to a no, but that hardly seems like a good idea to mention.  “Mum said it was safer, to only talk to former Overwatch agents, for everyone, and that you and Winston were more familiar with the technology necessary to fix the problem than anyone, but if I have to, then I’ll speak to the authorities.  I’ll probably be guilty of violating the PETRAS Act myself, but I can’t— _we_ can’t, as a species, let another Crisis happen.  Going to prison is a small price to pay, for knowing that people are safe.”

There is a considerably pause, heavy with the weight of Fareeha’s expectations, as Mercy seems to consider.

“Alright,” she relents, at last.  “There’s a café, next to my clinic.  I trust you can find where it is.  Meet me there for breakfast, at 07:00, if you’re serious about this.”

“Thank you,” Fareeha says, a rush of relief flooding through her.  “I’ll be there, I promise.”

“Good,” says Mercy, a little bit curtly, “Now leave me be.  I have a lot to consider, before morning.”

So does Fareeha—and a lot to ask her mother. 

“I will,” Fareeha says.  “Thank you again, and goodnight.”

Morning comes far too soon for Fareeha, whose sleep schedule is currently adjusted to be nocturnal, and who could not force herself to get more than a bit of sleep, at night.  Normally, she would be getting off shirt, and heading home to sleep, about now, rather than leaving her apartment and heading out for an appointment.

 _Appointment_ , an appropriate word for meeting a doctor, and she cannot resist chuckling at her own unintentional pun, and a man stares at her for it as she passes him on the sidewalk.  Or, perhaps he stares at her for the laughing—her tattoo, or her mother’s Overwatch-issue jacket are both also cause to catch the eye.  In any case, Fareeha is quite used to being stared at, by now, and she is far more concerned about other things.

Things such as how well she will fare, if the doctor decides to ask too many questions, whether or not her proof, such as it is, will stand up to scrutiny, and whether or not the answers her mother has given her will be sufficient, should Mercy ask any questions that the two of them did not anticipate.  They spent the better part of the night practicing this conversation, drilling over and over questions and answers, trying to come up with all possible scenarios, all possible things Fareeha could be asked, and ways she could answer.  If she does find herself caught in a lie, she does not know, yet, what she will do.  Ana would want her to lie more, to cover it up, or to leave, and default to the original plan, but she thinks she might tell the truth, instead, might decide, in that moment, that it is better to expose her mother’s lies than to commit to kidnapping someone.  Whether her loyalty to her mother will override her conscience is a question that will hopefully be unanswered, as she is counting on Mercy trusting her. 

There is, too, still another worry at the back of her mind.  She has yet to confront her mother about the fact that Ana did not merely advise against Fareeha’s recruitment, but actively blocked it.  What is Fareeha to make of that?  How would anyone respond?  She is angry, of course, but—still, she does not know, yet, what it is she ought to do with that knowledge, what it is she ought to say, and whether or not she can fully trust the source.

After all, Mercy’s perspective on her and Ana’s relationship seems quite different than what Fareeha has been led to believe, in the past few days.  To hear the doctor speak of it, she and Ana got along, outside of their work, were able at some points to carry on civil conversation and even lean on one another for advice, from time to time.  That is _not at all_ the impression Fareeha has gotten from her mother about the same relationship.  Part of Fareeha thinks she ought to trust Ana, because Ana has no reason to lie to her, that she can see, whereas Mercy might merely be saving face, or unwilling to speak ill of the dead, or even, if Fareeha is being especially paranoid, testing her by suggesting something so untrue.  But, then, when has her mother ever needed a reason to lie to her?  If Ana were a very truthful person, she would not be here, now, on her way to attempt to recruit the doctor under false pretenses.

A dilemma.  Which is the truth, and which the lie?

The cynic in Fareeha says they might both be lying, to a certain degree, both trying to leverage her in different ways.  After all, Mercy only spoke well of her mother once she seemed to be coming around to what it was Fareeha was saying, which means that could have been done in order to lead Fareeha into some sort of trap, and Ana only began to speak of her relationship with the doctor at all when discussing whether or not it would be best to kidnap her.  Both have reasons to lie, or even simply to exaggerate.  For all Fareeha knows they may have no strong feelings towards each other at all, in truth.

Or, perhaps more worryingly, both of them are being honest.  Perhaps they actually did view the relationship between the two of them so differently.  It would not be the first time something that this has happened, certainly, but it is the most difficult of all possible scenarios for Fareeha to navigate, because it means she is not going to know which of their perspectives is more realistic, is going to have to reconcile their different worldviews as she attempts to navigate working with the both of them.  In no way are Fareeha’s people skills lacking, but such a situation would be difficult for anyone to deal with.

In either case, Fareeha no longer has the time to dwell on such matters, for she ahs arrived at the agreed meeting point.  Although Mercy gave no address, her clinic was easy enough to find, given all the publicity surrounding it.  A simple two-story building, facing in a small courtyard with a public water source at the center, it surprises Fareeha to see just how unassuming it is.  The neighborhood is neither particularly good nor particularly bad, and, as promised, there is a small café next door.  Both buildings are exposed, no paint covering them, and the only real difference between the two is the newness of the signs that hang above them, and the biometric security next to the clinic’s entrance.

In front of the café sits a woman, and Fareeha assumes it is Mercy.  Although she cannot see the woman’s face, she feels the assumption is relatively safe; it is the appointed time, and appointed place, and they are well outside of the touristy areas of the city, meaning that it is highly unlikely that there is another white woman at the café, particularly at this hour.  The blonde hair that peaks out from beneath the large sunhat the woman is wearing only makes Fareeha more certain of this.

“Mercy?” Fareeha asks.

The woman does not turn to greet her, or move to stand, feet still propped up on the chair opposite her, and face still focused on the holopad in her hands.  “It’s Doctor Ziegler, these days,” says she, and her voice is very familiar, so Fareeha feels comfortable approaching.

Since Mercy—Doctor Ziegler—does not seem interested at all in moving her feet, Fareeha grabs a chair from another table, pulls it up towards the doctor, and moves to sit down.

“Ah-ah,” Doctor Ziegler’s voice is chastising, “Not just yet.”  She does set down her holopad then, moves to stand, and Fareeha is surprised by her height.  Naturally, Fareeha is still taller than the doctor, is taller than _most_ women she meets, but still, she notices that Doctor Ziegler is tall, too, far more so than she always seemed in promotional posters.

Perhaps it was counter to her image, that height, the intimidating stance that she takes, one Fareeha is very familiar with, shoulders square, feet the right distance apart to easily fight, or to run.  Not so angelic as her name and uniform might lead one to believe, is she?

Well, Fareeha can understand the importance of image, has been made to by her mother, knows why one would want to make a doctor seem petite, angelic, kind, but she thinks she rather likes the fact that Doctor Ziegler does not seem to be any of those things, particularly.  It would be hell, to have to work with someone so _good_ and _pure_ as her image suggested she was, and Fareeha would feel far guiltier about the deception she is about to engage in.

“Any particular reason I can’t sit down?”  It surprises Fareeha, how close Mercy stands to her.  Usually, foreigners are uncomfortable with standing at an appropriate distance for conversation, particularly white ones.

“I just have to pat you down, first.  A precaution, you understand?”

Well, normally Fareeha would have no objections to a good-looking woman _patting her down,_ but Mercy is all business, “Do you always ask people to do this,” Fareeha asks, trying to lighten the mood somewhat, “Or do you just do it to people as dashing as myself?”

“Very funny,” Doctor Ziegler’s voice is completely flat.  “Arms out.”

Humor, it seems, is not going to get her anywhere.  Fareeha knows when to pick her battles, and obeys. 

The doctor’s hands do not linger, are quick, efficient, and impersonal, and Fareeha wonders if she has had to do this often, in her life, or if it is a new precaution after Overwatch’s shutdown and she is simply a quick study.  _Meticulous_ , she remembers her mother calling the doctor once, _if somewhat lacking in bedside manner,_ and Fareeha thinks she understands, now.

All told, the pat down lasts no longer than half a minute, and Fareeha resists the urge to make another joke to distract from the oddness of having another woman’s hands touching her like this, so publicly.  It is, perhaps, the longest thirty seconds of Fareeha’s life.

“All clear,” Doctor Ziegler tells her, accent crisp and voice just slightly warmer.  “No weapons or wires.”

“Did you think you would find anything?” Fareeha asks, as the doctor steps away from her and sits down again, feet on the ground this time.

“One can never be too careful,” is the only answer Fareeha receives.

“And if you _had_ found something?”  She takes a seat, looks over at Mercy curiously, locks eyes with her at last under the brim of her hat.

“That,” Doctor Zeigler tells her, pursing her lips, “Is for me to know.”

Well, Fareeha can read between the lines, “So you didn’t have a plan.”  Given the short notice, she can hardly blame the doctor, but if it was all a bluff, it was a very bold one.  Were Fareeha anyone else, it might have been intimidating.

“It doesn’t seem like you had one, either,” Mercy—no, Doctor Ziegler—tells her, and then gestures to the lone coffee cup sitting on the table.  “It’s for you.  Mazboot.”

“Thank you,” Fareeha says, more because she has been taught to than because she is actually thankful, since something about this encounter still feels _off_ to her, “But I’m sure you know that I’m not going to drink anything I haven’t seen prepared.  Not after all of _that_.”  She is pleasantly surprised to hear that the doctor’s pronunciation of the word is good, and she _does_ take her coffee the traditional way, but that is not enough to relax her.  Clearly, if Doctor Ziegler’s first order of business was to check her for weapons, she is not so pacifistic as Ana claimed.

Rather than being offended, Mercy seems pleased by that response.  “So you _were_ playing dumb last night, weren’t you?”

“What?”  Fareeha _was_ , somewhat, or at least was making sure to come off as perhaps less calculating than she actually is, less well prepared, more overwhelmed and naïvely well-intentioned, but it was only because she thought the doctor would respond to such, given her reputation.

A reputation which was, clearly, somewhat manufactured.

“It’s a good thing.  I’m not particularly keen on potentially violating international law for someone _stupid,_ consequences be damned.”  Then, a sideways glance, laden with some meaning that Fareeha cannot quite parse, “And if you really _are_ Ana’s daughter, then I can hardly take you at your word, can I?”

Not sure how to reply, or if this, too, is some sort of test, Fareeha says, “It isn’t right to speak ill of the dead,” but her voice betrays her, as it is clear form her tone and her hesitation that she does not _truly_ feel that way about what Doctor Ziegler just said.

A hum from Doctor Ziegler, “You’re right about that, of course.  But it being wrong to do so did not stop your mother and I think—and you may disagree, although if I recall correctly I spoke to her more often than you did, in her last years—your mother would have been quite offended, if we started mincing words simply because she is _dead._ I respected her enough to be honest with her about my opinions, including the ones about her, and she did me the same courtesy.”

Courtesy?  Fareeha is not sure one could call that _courtesy_ , but she will be certain to remember the statement.  Part of her wonders if this is not the source of Doctor Ziegler and her mother’s differing opinions of one another—that they did not agree on what was polite—but Fareeha supposes that the doctor is right, she does not know her mother well enough, as of late, to try and to guess what she would and would not have approved of.  Come to think of it, she never really did.

Hopefully, her face is not too pinched as she speaks next.  It is not the doctor’s words she is reacting to, truly, but the fact that she was, in fact, _right._ This virtual stranger knew her mother better in her mother’s first life than Fareeha knows her even now, and things should not be that way.  “You might have a point,” Fareeha says, but does not refer to the latter half of Doctor Ziegler’s statement.  That might be entirely wrong.  “But I’m not here to talk about my mother.”

How many times in her life has she had to say that?

“No?” Doctor Ziegler asks, “I thought you were executing her wishes.”

“Well,” Fareeha says, “Yes, but I think we can both agree that following my mother’s orders has very little to do with our thoughts about her as a _person_ , and far more to do with respecting her as a commander.”

Dismissively, the doctor waves her hand, “If you insist.”

“I do.”  Fareeha takes her bag, and carefully places it on the table, “You asked me here for a reason, and I don’t particularly want to waste our time arguing about what a dead woman might or might not have wanted.”

As she moves to open the bag, a hand moves, _quickly_ , grabs her wrist before she fully processes what is happening, and Fareeha thinks that the doctor is _very_ lucky that she is tired, or she would have reacted before she had time to realize that this was an ally, or prospective one at least, grabbing her. 

“I’ll open it,” Doctor Ziegler insists, voice just a touch harder than before.  “If you don’t mind.”  Her tone clearly communicates that Fareeha cannot object, even if she _does_ mind.

“By all means,” Fareeha says, only a touch sarcastically, “But do be careful.  Some things are irreplaceable.”

That softens the doctor’s expression, if only for a moment, “I know.  I won’t damage any of your mother’s things.” 

Of course she would not.  Unlike Fareeha, she really _has_ lost her parents, knows what it is for insignificant objects to suddenly become irreplaceable, knowing that they belonged to a love one who is now lost forever.  Fareeha feels sympathy, too.  It was hard enough to feel that way for only a few months, and she is an adult, whereas the doctor was a child when her parents died, has lived most of her life without them.  What artifacts of their lives remain must be precious indeed.

True to her word, Doctor Ziegler removes the objects with the sort of care Fareeha imagines she usually reserves for reaching inside of other people, movements precise, efficient, and somehow still very tender.

The first item is one of Ana’s many scrapbooks, a more recent one, but not so new that it comes from the period of time in which she and Fareeha were not speaking to one another.  “So you can see that I’m really who I say I am,” Fareeha explains.

“What, not ID?”  Ziegler seems both amused and bemused by this choice.

“That’s pretty easy to forge,” Fareeha says, as if it were obvious, because it _is_ , “But I have that too, in my wallet.”

“No,” Doctor Ziegler says, paging through gently and stopping upon a photo of herself and the engineer, Lindholm, at what appears to be a costume party, “No, this will do.”

There is an inscrutable expression on the doctor’s face as she studies the photograph, and she lingers perhaps _too_ long on it, before abruptly snapping the book closed and setting it aside.

“Looks right, huh?” Fareeha asks, and gets only a frown in return.

“You knew it would, but proving that you’re Ana’s daughter doesn’t prove that the rest is true.  Where’s the proof that she asked you to do this, asked for me to help you?”

“Well she didn’t leave much in writing,” and they did not have the time, last night, to forge backdated documents, to make them look the appropriate age, to decide when in the timeline of Overwatch’s fall and their own fighting such a thing would have occurred, “But I didn’t figure you’d be able to read Arabic anyw—”

“I can,” the doctor’s tone is clipped.  “Did you think I’d set up a clinic in a country where I don’t even know the language?”

“You’ll have to forgive me for saying this, Doctor Ziegler, but it hasn’t exactly stopped white people before.”  If the doctor says she appreciates honesty, then she can have it.

Luckily, this _does_ seem to please Doctor Ziegler to hear, as her eyes crinkle slightly in amusement, “That is very fair,” says she, before once again growing serious, “But I will still be needing more than this.”

“In that case I’d suggest finishing looking though the bag.”  After the amount of time Fareeha spent figuring out what, exactly would serve as adequate evidence, the doctor had damn well better actually check things thoroughly.

“Ah,” Doctor Ziegler has, at least, the decency to look a bit chagrined, “Of course.”

Again, she reaches inside the bag, and it takes her a moment longer, this time, to retrieve the second item Fareeha brought with her: a small device, the purpose of which, her mother says, is monitoring the God Programs’ _true_ containment mechanism.

What, exactly, that is, Fareeha still does not know.

“What _is_ this?”  The doctor does not seem impressed, pulling out the object and holding it up towards the light, squinting at it, turning it over and over in her hands. 

“I don’t actually uh, know the name for it,” Fareeha admits, deciding that again, honesty is best, because the doctor _should_ not know what it is, either, but on the off chance that this is some sort of test, she does not want to be caught in a lie.  “My mother just said, ‘Use this to monitor Anubis’ containment,’ and left some pretty vague instructions on operating it.  I honestly don’t think she knew too much about how it worked either, but it’s pretty user-friendly.  Turns on when it’s near the God Program, has a holo display that tells you all sorts of stuff.”

“‘Stuff?’”  If she tried, Doctor Ziegler could not sound more unimpressed as she does at this moment.  “I don’t have a degree in dealing with _things_ that tell you _stuff._ If this is real—and I’m still entirely unconvinced—then I won’t be able to help you.”

“Liao built it,” Fareeha says, and really, that is an explanation in and of itself.  “Well, I think Lindholm might’ve helped them, since I don’t remember hearing anything about them being any good at building actual physical objects, but I’m not really sure.”

This earns her a sharp look from the doctor, “You know what Liao really did?”

“Uh,” Fareeha admits, “Not really.  I mean, I have a vague idea, because I know that their research ended up being really important when the chronal accelerator got built, according to Mum,” this is not really something Ana said, is an inference Fareeha is making, in this moment, but the look Doctor Ziegler is giving her makes it think that now is _probably_ a very good time to take a calculated risk, because she is in danger of this meeting unravelling completely, “So that tells me they were probably more a theoretical person.”

“I’m not sure that the logic behind your conclusion is entirely sound,” Doctor Ziegler does not sound angry, or sharp, even as she says this, and Fareeha resists the urge to sigh in relief, “As both Winston and I worked on the chronal accelerator, and we’re both far more interested in the actual than the theoretical, _but_ you are, nonetheless, correct about Liao.  So far as I know, at least.”

“So far as you know?”

Another dismissive handwave, this time with the right, as the doctor is currently holding Liao’s scanner in her left hand, “It isn’t as if I knew them.  They were before my time.  But given what I know of them from having to use some of their notes when building the chronal accelerator—you mother being vague makes considerably more sense.  Even _I_ don’t entirely understand what it was they were doing, and I have an engineering degree—albeit a biomedical one—and got to work with their notes personally.  I couldn’t fault Ana for not understanding this one.”

With any luck, Fareeha’s relief does not show on her face.  Unlike the doctor, Fareeha _does_ think that if her mother had left a note about the device, she would have been far more specific about how, exactly, the device worked, and what it was called, but it does not matter, so long as she is not questioning things too much.

“So you believe me now?” Fareeha asks, because it certainly _seems_ like Doctor Ziegler is warming up to her, if she is willing to say this much.

“Not exactly,” the doctor says, and Fareeha does her best to mask her mounting annoyance as she continues with yet another objection.  Little does she know that Fareeha is on her side.  “You could have learned everything you’ve told me so far simply by virtue of being Ana’s daughter.  What Liao did was top secret, and you could just be using that to hand me a piece of junk and tell me it’s important.  I haven’t seen—”

“For what reason?” Fareeha demands, finally fully out of patience.  “Why would I possibly come here, risking you reporting me for violating the PETRAS Act, or attempting to, hand you over one of the last things I have from my mother and—”

“You say that as if you and your mother got along.”  The doctor’s voice does not raise, but it does grow considerably colder, harder, less sweet.  “I know for a fact that you didn’t.  You hadn’t spoken to her in _years_ before her death, and you expect me to believe that, what, she entrusted you with some great task?  She didn’t even trust you to join Overwatch.”

If the doctor thinks Fareeha is going to just accept her saying that, she has another thing coming, “That isn’t why—”

“Isn’t it?  Then prove it.”

“—she turned me down, it was because she—”

“Because she what?  Loved you?” 

“Of course she—”

“No,” now, the doctor raises her voice, cuts her off with a good deal of finality, “You don’t get to leverage that when you _hurt her_ like you did _._ If loving you were enough for her to entrust you with that sort of responsibility—that is a lie, and you know it!”

Well, Fareeha does not know what to say to that.  The doctor is right, her mother did _not_ suddenly decide to work with her because she loves her, it was just that Fareeha happened to be in the right place at the right time to be reunited with her and might, maybe, be of use to her in her quest, whatever it may be.

“Alright,” says she, quieter, “I don’t really know what to… You’re right.  My mother working with me _doesn’t_ make sense,” or, rather, it does not in the context of what it is Angela knows, lacking the information that Fareeha could well have turned her mother in, tightened security around the Temple to lock her out, because she is very much _still alive_ , and seems to have changed somewhat, in the time she was dead, grown better at apologizing, at least enough so that they can tolerate one another, “But that’s why you should believe it.  If I were bullshitting you, I’d’ve come up with something more believable.”

Another frown from Doctor Ziegler, “I’m afraid it doesn’t work like that.”

“No?  But you being so suspicious of me hardly makes sense either.”  One finger she holds up to forestall any objection, “I know, I know, you don’t agree with the conceit that my mother’s scrapbook would necessarily be important to me, but it _is_ still dangerous for me to meet you.  You were _quite_ outspoken about the decision to dissolve Overwatch.  If anyone would report me for attempted violation of the PETRAS Act, then it would be you.  Why would I _possibly_ take that risk?”

“I don’t see why you would,” Doctor Ziegler says, and the words are right, but something in her tone is not.  She does not _see why_ , but nonetheless she seems to believe it.  “But surely it would make more sense for you to present this information to your boss.  You _do_ work with Helix, Lieutenant Amari.”

“I work _for_ them, not _with_ them,” Fareeha knows it is a nitpick, but given the doctor’s tone, she gets the sense that her work at HSI may be counting against her, right now.  “And I couldn’t tell them because having this device is violating the PETRAS Act in and of itself—”

“No, it isn’t.”

“What?”  Overwatch related activity is illegal, right?

“Possession of Overwatch-created tech isn’t illegal, or I wouldn’t have my comm still.  You haven’t actually committed a crime—or, hadn’t until you contacted me, rather.  Communing with Overwatch agents with the intent to carry on the work of Overwatch in some way, as you have done multiple times in the span of the past half hour, in _public_ , I might add, _is_ a violation of the PETRAS Act.”

“Okay,” Fareeha says, “But I did _use_ the thing, and I’m pretty sure that’s Overwatch activity, or at least Overwatch-adjacent.”

“Given that it’s Liao’s work, which was strictly off the record, I think you’d have been safe to have told your bosses about it, particularly given that stopping a potential Omnic Crisis in its tracks wouldn’t hurt Helix’s record any.  Most likely they’d be willing to overlook the source of the information.”  This, Fareeha cannot argue with, but…

“Yeah,” Fareeha says, “Sure, but like you said, it’s Liao’s tech.  I’m not betting on Helix knowing what it is or how to deal with it.”

“Purportedly,” Doctor Ziegler says.

“What?”

“This,” she waves the device, “Is _purportedly_ Liao’s technology.  I’ve yet to verify that.”

“Can you hurry up and do that then, so we can stop going in circles?  We don’t have forever—if something’s wrong, we’re going to want to fix it _before_ the next Crisis.”  Increasingly, Fareeha is convinced that her mother had a point about working with the doctor.

“I’m not sure whom you mean by _we_ ,” Doctor Ziegler stands as she speaks.  “I haven’t agreed to anything.”

Yet despite that assertion, she beckons Fareeha to follow her as she calls out a polite, “Have a nice morning,” to the café owner, and heads into her clinic.

“Where are we—” Fareeha starts to ask, before the doctor cuts her off.

“You want me to believe you, yes?  Then you’re going to have to let me look at this _properly_.”

Somehow, that is not at all reassuring.  After all, Fareeha does not know what the device is or does herself, and she also just has an _off_ feeling about this.  Her instincts about such things are rarely wrong, have kept her alive thus far.  Perhaps it is just the atmosphere.  The clinic is still half finished, and Fareeha has seen enough horror movies set in abandoned medical settings to be put on edge by such.

Nevertheless, she rather wishes she had a weapon on her.  She does not doubt that she could take the doctor in a fight without one, but she would still far rather have one, just in case.

“Here we go,” the doctor says, having led her up a flight of stairs and into what appear to be her personal living quarters, or at the very least an office she sleeps in relatively regularly, “Just through this door.”

Inside the room the lights are out, and there is no light from a window, or any other source.  Fareeha’s training tells her that she should not go in here, should not do this, but what choice does she have?  If she refuses, and the room is in fact entirely benign, then it will seem as if _she_ is the person with something to hide.  And, again, she is confident that in a fight against the doctor, she would win.

Or, rather, she is confident until Doctor Ziegler steps in after her, when the door shuts behind them, too loudly, and she hears the whirr of an electronic lock engaging.

_Fuck, shit, god damn it!_

“Strip,” the doctor’s voice is considerably colder, now, and more forceful than before.

Still, Fareeha cannot help her response, “Excuse me?”  No way in hell is she taking off her clothes in front of a stranger.

“You can leave your underwear on, if you’d like, but I’m going to need to be sure we haven’t been recorded.”

“You already gave me a pat down,” Fareeha knows it is not wise to protest.  The lights have come on, now, and she does not see anything she could use as a weapon in the room.  It appears to be a standard saferoom, water, food, a place to sleep, a change of clothes if absolutely necessary, and a panic button on the opposite wall.  Likely, there is something here that Fareeha could fashion into a weapon, but she has the sinking feeling that, if she were to turn around, she would see Doctor Ziegler with a weapon of some sort in her hand.  Stupid of her to have walked in first, even if the door was being held for her, and it would have seemed impolite to refuse.

“Didn’t you say you were a security expert?  Both you and I know you could have a wireless listening device somewhere on your person, or embedded in your skin.”

“ _In my skin?_ ”  Fareeha does not know her Qur’an as well as she should, it is true, but she is relatively certain that body modification is largely frowned upon.  Not that the same prohibition stopped Fareeha from getting a tattoo, or her mother cybernetizing her eye, but _still._

“You wouldn’t be the first person to do so,” Doctor Ziegler tells her, “So just take off your clothes long enough for me to give you a quick scan—hands free this time, I promise—and we can be done with this.”

“Alright,” Fareeha acquiesces, “Fine.  But I want you to know that I think this is ridiculous.”

Years in the military have made Fareeha very, very efficient at dressing and undressing herself quickly, and so she is down to just her underwear and socks relatively quickly.  The doctor walks in a slow circle around her, standard bioscanner in one hand, decidedly _non_ -standard gun in the other, and for a moment Fareeha considers grappling it out of her hand, given that her grip does not seem too terribly secure, before deciding that fighting over a probably loaded weapon is more trouble than it is worth, particularly when she knows that Doctor Ziegler is not going to find anything of interest, and there is, therefore, no danger.

A tense moment of silence as the doctor makes it back to her back, before she says, almost cheerfully, “All clear.  You can get dressed now.”

“I told you it was unnecessary,” Fareeha says, almost sullenly, turning around again to face Doctor Ziegler.  “No weapons, no wires.  I just came to talk.”

“One can never be too careful,” this, too, sounds almost cheerful, but the cheeriness is considerably more forced.

“ _Careful_ was patting me down.  This is paranoia.”  Her mother, she might understand this from, but there is no way the doctor needs to do this, she is not the one on the run.

“I assure you I was simply exercising appropriate caution.  I’m not going to be caught on tape agreeing to violate international law.”

“Why are you so sure I’m—Wait.  Agreeing?”

“Yes.  This,” she waves the small device Fareeha previously handed her in front of both of them, “Is Liao’s doing.  Or a very detailed forgery by someone who knew their work very well.  In either case, it’s of interest to me.”

Now Fareeha is the one who is feeling a bit suspicious, “I thought you didn’t know what it was?”

“I don’t.  But Liao always marked their things—and no, I won’t tell you how,” she says quickly, anticipating the question Fareeha was opening her mouth to ask, “So whoever made this either was, in fact, them or was very, _very_ familiar with their work.”

“And knowing this was real wasn’t enough for you to trust me?”  Ostensibly, they came here to look at the device, not to draw weapons or the like.

“Overwatch was betrayed,” says the doctor, back turning to Fareeha once again as she looks towards the far end of the room, and the small Overwatch group picture Fareeha had initially failed to notice upon it.  “It isn’t public knowledge yet, but I suspect it will be soon.  When the UN interrogated all of us, I told them everything I knew.  Given that, and my own not-insignificant role in having Overwatch formally disbanded, I have quite a number of enemies.”

“You thought I was going to kill you?”  If she did, then she is not very smart after all, having put herself in a position in which Fareeha could easily have overpowered her.

“No,” says the doctor, “No if you’d wanted to do that, you wouldn’t have bothered to call me at all.  But there are things worse than death.  If you’d gotten me to agree to violate the PETRAS Act—I don’t fancy rotting away in a cell alongside the many, many people Overwatch helped to arrest.  It wouldn’t end well.”

“I suppose it wouldn’t,” Fareeha admits.  Helix runs a few high security prisons, and despite their best efforts it is difficult to protect the prisoners from one another.  “But I still don’t see why you were so convinced _I_ would have a stake in that.  I wasn’t even a part of Overwatch, as you so _kindly_ pointed out.”

Although she turns to face Fareeha again, Doctor Ziegler still does not meet her eyes, quite.  “Whoever betrayed Overwatch had to be very high ranking,” says she, “Given what they knew, the orders they must have given.  The options for who, exactly the traitor was are scarce.  Myself, Torbjörn, Reinhardt, Jack, Reyes, and your mother.  _Maybe_ Sojourn, but knowing—it’s doubtful she was involved, for reasons I can’t disclose.  Of all of us, only _one_ person’s disappearance coincides with the beginning of the chain of events which led to the Swiss Headquarters exploding.”

Two feelings well up in Fareeha at once, anger and dread both so powerful that she ultimately expresses neither, “You can’t seriously be implying that my mother is the traitor.  She’s _dead_.”

“Is she?”  Doctor Ziegler gives her a very strange look, then, “I thought she was, too.  But then you called me, and you knew things only she knew and—you weren’t talking, when she died.  Or, so I thought.  And if she is alive, why would she be hiding it, really?  Why, if she didn’t do this?”

“Why would you even think that she’s alive?”  Fareeha cannot deny the rest, cannot even try to, because there is truth, in Doctor Ziegler’s words, more than she herself knows, and to think of it, to even entertain the possibility, it is nauseating. 

“We all wear biotransmitters in the field, and hers—it wasn’t right, when she died.  Something was off.  Could it have been damaged?  Yes, but without her body…”  A shake of the doctor’s head, “No one believed me, of course, when I said she was still alive.  No one wanted to.  She’d never leave us, they said—but none of us would ever betray each other, either.”

“None except her?”  That does not sound right, even to Fareeha’s ears.  If there were suspicions about her mother before Overwatch fell, surely that would have come to light, in the ensuing investigation.  No other dead hero’s legacy was spared public scrutiny, and as Doctor Ziegler said, she was _very_ honest in her testimony before the UN.  If she had her doubts then, surely she would have voiced them.

“No, no, none _including_ her.  I couldn’t have imagined that any of them would have—would have done _that._ Yet it has to have been someone, doesn’t it?  Someone I trusted.  Someone I cared about, who I thought cared about me.  Someone I fought alongside for years, practically all my adult life and I never—I never knew.  I never even suspected, not for a moment.”  There is distress, now, in the doctor’s voice, and Fareeha almost feels bad for pressing, not because she regrets what she said, per se, but because this isn’t the sort of conversation one wants to have with _anyone_ , let alone a virtual stranger. 

Given all this, it makes more sense, why the doctor would be so thorough in ensuring Fareeha was not double crossing her, so slow to trust.  Fareeha would feel guilty, were it not for the accusations currently being levelled, and she does decide to try to be comforting, if only to ease things along.

One hand raises to pat Doctor Ziegler’s shoulder, intending to be reassuring, “I’m sorry, that sounds—”

“I don’t care how it sounds,” she snaps, and shoves Fareeha’s hand off of her, clearly displeased by the attempt at comfort.  “We aren’t here to talk about that.  We’re talking about your mother.”

 _Your mother_ , said so accusingly, as if Ana were the worst person she could think of, in that moment, as if not but a half hour before she had not gazed fondly upon pictures taken by the same woman, clearly lost in the memory of that happier time.  How quickly her opinion seems to have shifted, now that all trace of Ana the woman is gone again, and only the idea of her remains.

“She wouldn’t have—” Fareeha starts, then restarts, “My mother was a good woman.”

For the first time in the entirety of their conversation, today’s or yesterday’s, the doctor makes proper eye contact with her.  “How well did you know your mother, really?”

Her eyes are blue, just like in the posters, and the holos, dark and rich, not unlike the Overwatch colors, and Fareeha suddenly realizes that she has not made decent eye contact with her mother at all, in the past two days. 

What color are her mother’s eyes?  They should be brown, and warm, should feel like _home_ , but when she saw them at the Temple, when they glinted in the light—it was not brown, nor blue, nor any human color Fareeha saw, but yellow, bright and artificial, like an Omnic’s.  A sickening color, as if… Fareeha does not want to think about it, but it does beg a question.

An Omnic’s eyes, in a human woman, one who supposedly has discovered something wrong with the Anubis AI, and wants to fix it, but only secretly.  What could that mean?  What would anyone else think, were they not Fareeha, not so desperate to be reunited with their mother?

They would think her a traitor, and they might be right, after all.

It _is_ suspicious, very much so, and Fareeha feels sick, again, just thinking about it.  No, she tells herself, no, _no._ Her mother would never betray them.  She gave everything, her time, her marriage, her relationship with her daughter, to protect humanity.  Why would she throw all of that away now?  Why not have just let the omnics win in the first place, or sabotaged Overwatch more subtly?  This is not her way, it cannot be.

Not Ana.  Not her _mother._

“My mother isn’t a traitor!”

_Is she?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ah, spy vs spy bullshit. but u really never can be too careful
> 
> notes:  
> \- mazboot is just like, an average amount of sugar in ur coffee. it actually means "perfect" but there is one perfect way to have coffee in masri  
> \- fareeha still doesnt know angela knows arabic from her using that word bc thats kinda 101 cultural knowledge and hardly an indication of fluency  
> \- blah blah commentary on mass surveillance and the way arab ppl are viewed w suspicion/subjected to searches. im sure u caught my drift. "random" searching is a bitch  
> \- why do angela and ana report such different things about their relationship? well, youll find out in chapter 11 or so. for now, fareeha is left very in the dark  
> \- fareeha accidentally referring to ana in the present tense. dumbass. did angela notice?


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hewwo i have returned... with more content

The words ring in both of their ears, and for a moment Doctor Ziegler stands frozen in front of Fareeha, as if stunned by them, _My mother isn’t a traitor!_ An objection, an accusation, a plea all in one.

How dare this woman, this _stranger,_ really, question Fareeha’s relationship with her mother?  How dare she imply that Ana would have betrayed Overwatch, when she nearly died for them?  How dare Fareeha herself secretly wonder the same—how dare she make Fareeha feel that doubt?

No, Ana would never betray Overwatch.  It is impossible, it is, it is.  It must be.  If she would give up her relationship with Fareeha’s father for them, if she would miss so much of Fareeha’s childhood for Overwatch, then surely, _surely_ she would not betray them, not ever.  Already she gave them so much.  What, possibly, would have been her final straw, I not losing her family, or nearly so?

Fareeha is furious, at both the doctor and herself for entertaining the notion, feels that anger start to radiate off of her, and thinks, for once in her life, she will _let_ herself be angry.  Normally she does not, contains her feelings, both because she does not want to upset the people around her and because she knows how she must be perceived, knows that if she does get angry she will be judged more harshly for it, because of her gender, because of her strength and height, and mostly because of the color of her skin.  Here, in Egypt, it is not so much a problem, save for the fact that she is a woman who would do so, but she knows around white people how very dangerous it can be, to be herself, to feel the full spectrum of human emotion in public.

But now?  Fuck that.  The doctor pulled a gun on her, already.  If either of them is unduly aggressive, it cannot be said to be _her._ After an accusation like that, she has the _right_ to be pissed.

“I know,” Doctor Ziegler says, and the response surprises her, loud at first, for Fareeha’s benefit and then quieter, as if it were an admission only for her own ears, “I know.”  She takes a half step back from Fareeha, eyes cast to the side again, “Your mother would never have—but it’s just so hard, lately, to trust anyone.  Even people whom I cared deeply for.  So when you came into my life so suddenly, and you knew things—things you shouldn’t have, that no one should have talked about… Who wouldn’t be suspicious?”

Fareeha understands, she does, knows how difficult something like this must be to go though, knows how much she herself struggled to reconcile Overwatch being shut down for herself, without having been a member of it for her entire adult life, or ever, but now is not the time to feel sympathy.  Women like the doctor always seem to expect that, to expect their vulnerability to see them pardoned, rewarded.  When Fareeha says she is wrong, all she ever gets is a _Yes, you were_ , so she will not give the doctor what it is she wants to hear.

“Being suspicious is all well and good,” says she, “But that doesn’t excuse making those kinds of accusations, least of all to _me._ You’re grieving?  Fine.  But I lost my _mother._ ”

In response, Doctor Ziegler seems to have no defense, simply says, “You’re right,” and then, “I won’t apologize for thinking it, given the circumstances.  You asked me why I was suspicious, and I told you.  My phrasing should have been different but that isn’t—I can’t unsay it, and I suspect that no apology I give you would suffice, anyway.”

Fareeha wants to ask, _Would you have thought the same of Jack?_ but she realizes she does not want to know the answer, not really.  No matter what the doctor says, they are going to have to work together, and opening that can of worms now will only make her life more difficult, if the answer is not one that she wants to hear. 

So, instead, she does not address what she is feeling at all, puts back on her mask, pretends, again, to be affable, to be contented, as if one half-assed apology could placate her, and she says, “Thank you for being honest with me,” this is the kind of lie Fareeha is good at, pretending that she is not angry with the injustices of the world, is the kind of thing she has to do every day.  She _is_ grateful for the honesty, would rather the doctor have said what she did than apologize for something she clearly does not feel sorry for, but that does not mean Fareeha is satisfied with her response.

“It really is the least I could do,” Doctor Ziegler tells her, and Fareeha does find herself agreeing with that much, at least.  “If we’re going to be working together, we’ll have to be honest with each other, won’t we?”

“It’s pretty important, I’d say,” Fareeha says, and thinks _shit_ , because for all that she is angry with the doctor, it _is_ she who is deliberately misleading the other woman, _is_ she who had plans on kidnapping her, if they could not reach an agreement, making the pulling of the gun perhaps, in fact, justified, and it _is_ she working on her mother’s orders, even right now, just as the doctor suspected.

Well, she can be angry, think that something was perhaps an uncharitable assumption that might have played out differently had Ana been anyone else, find the doctor’s accusations tactless, and still, despite all that, also be guilty herself of exactly what she was accused, if for very different reasons.  Both of those realities can exist at once, that the doctor made uncharitable, unfair assumptions, and that those assumptions were incidentally mostly correct, save for the one critical one, that of motivation. 

None of this must show on her face, for the next thing Doctor Ziegler says is, “I’m afraid I can’t help you just yet, however.  I’m going to need to know exactly what the scans said, and what typical data is.  And I don’t even know how to turn this _on._ ”

Neither does Fareeha, but saying that is not exactly an option.  “Uh,” says she, “I can get more data for you tonight, if that works?  And we can meet tomorrow to look at it?”

Hopefully, the doctor does not ask to see what she has already, because she really, truly, does not know what it is she is going to say, if that is the case.  Of all the things to forget to ask her mother, this seems a very vital one.

“Tomorrow is actually better for me,” Doctor Ziegler moves past her, and for a moment Fareeha tenses, still on edge after having had a gun drawn on herself, and reaction she thinks is quite reasonable, but the doctor is only opening the door, placing her palm to be scanned and then inputting some code.  “I have a meeting this afternoon with city officials to discuss an issue with having the proper building designation here for the equipment I want to use.  It’s bullshit, of course, but bureaucrats don’t like to be reminded of how little they actually matter, so I’m going to have to play nice, or they’ll make my life harder.” 

There is real venom in her voice, as she discusses this, and for the first time Fareeha feels she truly _agrees_ with the doctor on something, believes that they might, on this matter, feel similarly.  To her, it seems the doctor is not offended by the fact that she is being challenged, but genuinely angry that she is being made unable to help people, for the sake of someone else’s pride.  This, Fareeha understands.  All too often countries refused Overwatch’s help, wanted to insist that they could handle crises on her own, and she remembers her mother’s frustration over that, her anger, because innocent people were left to die for the sake of national pride.  This sounds the same and Fareeha thinks that, perhaps, the doctor is, at least in this regard, a genuinely good person.

In this regard only—Fareeha does not trust, still, so much else about this woman, does not know what to think about how readily she pulled a gun, how suspicious she was of Fareeha, and by extension Ana.  It is possible to genuinely care about human life, to help others because suffering is anathema to oneself, and to yet hold prejudices that one is not even consciously aware of.  Fareeha will see, in a few days, how she feels about that issue.

For now, however, she thinks it best to leave while she has the opportunity, while no gun is pointed at her, to make her way out the door and back home, to her mother.  She says something sympathetic about the doctor’s meeting later in the day, and promises to be back tomorrow at the same time, but she does not tarry.  What more could she possibly want to hear?

She is on a mission.  Whether she likes the doctor or not does not matter.  She will work with her, because the world needs to be saved, and that will be it.  Whether or not the doctor is good, is the sort of person Fareeha actually could get along with, is not in question here, even if Fareeha _does_ wonder.  Some of the things she said, the loyalty to Overwatch she seemed to have, and the way she looked at her mother’s scrapbook, they do not it, quite, with the narrative Ana gave Fareeha, and make Fareeha slightly more inclined to view the suspicion form earlier charitably.  Perhaps it is true, perhaps the doctor did not lie, perhaps it was the situation, driving her to paranoia, and not her genuine feelings about Ana that spurred the accusation. 

And, indeed, for all the reasons she suspected Ana, she was right. 

Maybe it is Fareeha herself whom Fareeha is angry at, for allowing herself to be taken in by such logic, to follow what the doctor said to its logical conclusion and think to herself, _yes,_ it makes sense, in a way.

It should not.  It should not and Fareeha does not want to think about what that means, her believing, even for an instant, that the doctor could have been right.  For now, it is easier for her to tell herself that the doctor was being irrational, that her conclusion was the result of prejudice and not well-founded suspicion and maybe…

Maybe it is both.  That is always a possibility, although not one Fareeha is particularly keen to acknowledge.

No, no, she was right originally, best not to think about any of this.  Best simply to move on with her life as well as she can, to proceed with the mission, and to worry about all of this only after it is over.  If her mother is being dishonest, surely the doctor will uncover as much, when she views whatever data Ana collects tonight, both of them under Fareeha’s careful supervision.  Of course, if her mother is deceitful, the fallout will inevitably be for Fareeha to deal with, but she remembers the doctor’s weak stance and thinks, even unarmed, she could easily take her in a fight, if it comes to that.  The potential legal fallout is another matter, but if push comes to shove she can likely count on the threat of the doctor, too, being prosecuted for violation of the PETRAS Act as a deterrent, a near guarantee that whatever happens will go unreported.

What other option has she?  If her mother is being honest, the price of inaction is far, far too great to risk wasting time on suspicion, and if she is being lied to, then the lie will, surely, be discovered before the worst has come to pass.  Why would Ana recruit a third person, one who clearly is more willing to doubt her than Fareeha, if she did not believe that she was doing as she said, and there was no risk being caught doing something duplicitous. 

This would be much easier were she not working with her mother, objectivity would be far more attainable.  Yet, she cannot choose with whom she works.  All she must do is endure this, and hope for the best for the world.  Her happiness, her suspicions about her mother, her desire to prove herself, none of that matters in the face of another Crisis.

What matters is this: that she does not fail, and Fareeha cannot, will not, allow that of herself.  She never has.

If, perhaps, her journey home is filled with different worries than her trip to meet the doctor, who would know?  Any gazing upon her would surely see, first and foremost, her determined expression.

She will not, cannot, must not, fail, and to avoid doing so, neither can she falter.  Once, blind faith came easily to Fareeha, what she needs to do is to return to that mindset, the more innocent one, when Overwatch and her mother could do nothing wrong, if only for a little while.

She can turn back time, she can.

When her mother returned to her, the hourglass of Fareeha’s life reset, and surely she can make it go backwards again, can find that former trust in her mother, the love they once had for one another, and make it work for her.

 _Inshallah,_ her mother would say.

Of course, Fareeha’s best laid plans tend to go awry, when her mother is concerned.  When she returns to the condo, there is smoke in the air, and it is that which draws her attention, all thoughts of resolve, of turning back time, of reporting back to her mother forgotten, in that instant. 

What happened?  Were they attacked?  Is her mother okay?

The smoke is not so thick as to prevent her breathing, but it rolls over her as she opens the door to the apartment, and her first breath is a harsh adjustment, thick in her lungs as the doubt was, earlier, and for an instant, panic grips her heart. 

But quick as it came, it is gone, is dissipating into the fresh air of the hall, smoke not truly thick at all, but seeming so, for the suddenness with which Fareeha was exposed to it.  There is no fire, not truly, only her mother, in the middle of the living room, clearly having removed the battery to Fareeha’s smoke alarm only moments before.

Hurriedly, Fareeha closes the door behind her, not wanting to draw attention and, after a moment to calm her racing heart, says, “I told you not to cook.”

“I know,” her mother says, and her voice is clear, but her face is not, the air hazy with the smoke, as if it were a memory, and not something real, something happening in this moment.  It could be, for all that it is familiar. 

When last they lived here, Fareeha was only a baby, but her father showed her enough photos for this place, over the years, enough happy pictures of their entire family, whole then, that Fareeha has constructed memories for herself.  Were it not for the Crisis, this could have been a scene from her childhood, her coming home to her mother having filled the apartment with smoke after another attempt at having baked for the family.  That aches, in its own way, the could have been, and once more Fareeha feels as if she is stepping into the past, is nearly swallowed up by the un-reality of the situation.  No, she never came home to this, never had the opportunity to, and even if she had, her mother would look nothing like this, would be years younger, and less scarred, would have dressed as she did, then, and not like this, arms covered, collar high, keeping perfectly with the standards of modesty of a religion she grew more attached to, after she and Fareeha stopped speaking.

Her mother is still speaking, is explaining something, perhaps justifying her choice to attempt to use the stovetop, but Fareeha finds it hard to listen, is consumed instead by wondering, again, _is_ she imagining this?  How can it possibly be real?  Her mother is dead, she is, and Overwatch with her, and there was no corpse to be found, it is true, but the doctor was right, and it does not make sense for Ana to still be alive.  She should not be here, should be dead, would have died for Overwatch instead of this.

In the weeks leading up to today, Fareeha felt so detached from reality, so separated, felt as if someone pulled at the fabric of her, stretched and stretched time around her, moving her out of step with everyone else, whose lives carried on.  Having felt so, can she trust herself that this is real?  Could anyone?

True, the doctor agreed that the device given to her by Ana was Liao’s, but how much of that was real, either?  It is easy, to conjure visions for oneself of a person one never truly met, and Fareeha cannot know if she behaved according to her nature or not, knowing nothing of whom she is.  And it is a safe figure she chose, one close enough to her mother to know her, to love her, but not so close that she could not criticize her, too, not bring to light all the things Fareeha was already thinking to herself, even if she was unwilling to consciously acknowledge them.

Do people know, when they lose touch with reality?  Do they doubt, as Fareeha is now?  Do they notice something just out of place and think to themselves, _This isn’t right_ , _I must be dreaming?_

Maybe that is what this is, instead, dreaming, one long nightmare after another restless night.  Maybe if she pinches herself, she will wake up, will be alone, again, with work in the evening and—

—And there is a hand on her face, warm, calloused, _real_ , and eyes at once familiar and not peering concernedly into her own.

“Fareeha?” her mother asks, “Are you alright?  Did Ziegler do something to—”

“I’m fine,” Fareeha snaps, for what feels like the millionth time in three days.  She appreciates her mother’s newfound concern for her wellbeing, she does, but she does _not_ want to talk about her feelings any more than she already has.  Not now, maybe not ever.  When her mother stopped talking to her, she stopped owing Ana any access to her life, any trust.  It is not for her mother to ask this, not for her to wonder how it is Fareeha is doing, what she is thinking, how she is feeling.  That is a trust she has yet to re-earn, and close as Fareeha _wishes_ she and her mother were, she cannot make herself open back up, again, will not.  Maybe one day but—things are too raw, yet, and she gets the feeling that her mother is still holding much back from her, so why should she share in return?

She should not.  Will not.

So she says I’m fine, and hopes to leave it at that, adds, almost an afterthought, “Well, she _did_ pull a gun on me, but—” and the distraction works.

Instantly, her mother’s face shifts from concern to anger, “She _what?_ I—”

“I said I was fine, Mum,” Fareeha says, places a hand over the one her mother has on her shoulder, “She didn’t _do_ anything, and it’s not like I was ever in any real danger.  Her form is terrible!  I could’ve disarmed her in a second.”

“Even so!  For all she talks about the need for nonviolence, how war is never the answer, you would think she’d at least try and keep to those principles for herself.  I’ve never known her to—if I thought she was dangerous, I would’ve been there to back you up.  She really shouldn’t have—”

“I can handle myself, Mum,” Fareeha says, perhaps too sharply.  She understands that her mother is concerned, she does, knows that it is understandable, in theory, but she is safe, clearly, and wants her mother to understand that she is more than capable of handling such situations, is equally as competent as any Overwatch agent is able, is _worthy_ of doing anything her mother would ask of anyone else.

And, again, what right has her mother to be concerned?  When Fareeha faced far more serious threats, in her time in the army, when she nearly died—did her mother ask after her health, then?  Did she write?  No, never.  How dare she do so now?  

For a moment, Ana searches her face, then takes a half step back.  “I know,” she acquiesces, “I know.  But I worry.  Next time, we’re going to have to be more cautious.  Clearly, I underestimated Ziegler.”

“Well, to be fair, I didn’t get the sense that she was particularly used to doing this either.  She’s just—pretty shaken by the way things went down with Overwatch, I think.  She knows someone betrayed all of you, and doesn’t know who, so…”  Fareeha does not really know how to conclude that sentence, in truth, wants to say _It’s understandable,_ but does not know how her mother would take it, and does not know, either, where the line between reasonable concern ends and paranoia begins.  Perhaps it is not so understandable, after all. 

“Oh _she’s_ one to worry,” her mother says, bitterly, but does not elaborate.  Fareeha wants to ask what that means, but knows that she will not get a satisfactory answer.  From Ana, she never does.

Pushing past her mother and finally into the apartment proper, moving to set her things down, again, on the table, so they can plan in earnest, Fareeha half shrugs, “I mean, she _did_ get some things right.  She knew your death was faked, and—”

“She _what_?”  Because her mother is behind her, now, Fareeha cannot see Ana’s face, but she hears the alarm in her tone, the fear.

“I told her she was crazy,” Fareeha says, “Don’t worry.”  Never mind that the doctor was right, and how deeply unfair it was to lie to her, to cause her to doubt herself.  Thinking about how she herself has been feeling, these past days, Fareeha has to force herself to push away the rising tide of guilt, the disgust with herself she feels at having made someone else to so question their own reality.  _It is necessary,_ she tells herself, _Is for the best,_ and maybe Doctor Ziegler _did_ reach the correct conclusion through irrational worry, anyway, so Fareeha should not feel so bad as she does.

Maybe.  But it reeks of a justification, and a convenient one, at that, and Fareeha wonders, yet again, if this is how her mother feels, if she knows there is something off, with the things that she does, if she doubts herself, and just makes herself push those thoughts away, again and again.

To think, she used to want so badly to be just like her mother, and now she fears nothing more.

“She must be,” Ana says, “Pulling a gun on you.  That’s nothing like her.”

That, Fareeha thinks, should worry them, a sign of instability in a potential ally, but then they do not _need_ the doctor to be healthy, to be at her best, so long as she can help them solve their problem.  This is a short-term venture, not one in which there will be much of a chance for something to go wrong.  Still, Fareeha will keep tabs on it, best she can—on Doctor Ziegler’s apparent health, _and_ her mother’s.  Neither of them is fully acting like themself, evidently.

“I think,” Fareeha says, diplomatically as possible, turning again to look at her mother now that she has unpacked her bag, “That she felt she had reason to, and given that she _was_ right, I wouldn’t be so quick to dismiss her.  I’m going to monitor things but—she _was_ right, Mum, knew that you sent me, and because someone betrayed Overwatch, I don’t think it’s irrational of her to assume that—”

“She thinks _I’m_ a traitor?”  Her mother’s voice raises as she says this, angry and sharp, “She’s the one who—”

“I know, Mum,” Fareeha says, hoping to diffuse this as quickly as possible.  “But given how concerned she was—I really don’t think she has anything to do with Overwatch being taken down either.”

“Oh she _doesn’t_?  You know very well she—”

“ _Yes_ , Mum, I know what she said to the UN.  I watched the hearings live, when I could.  But that doesn’t mean she—Look, she’s afraid for her life, thinks that whoever betrayed everyone is the same person picking off former agents.  And I’m inclined to agree.  It makes sense.  So although her testimony didn’t help, I don’t blame her for—”

“—I do.”

“Well, you have that right, but considering that she confided in me about her concerns about the traitor, I’m disinclined to believe that she’s the guilty party, and she doesn’t _really_ think it was you, anyway.”  Or, at least, she said as much to Fareeha.  Whether or not that was true, Fareeha does not know well enough to say for certain.  Yes, she seemed truthful, but Fareeha does not, admittedly, know her well enough to read her emotions as clearly as Ana might be able to.

Her mother’s hands come down on the table, hard, “She pulled a gun on you.  You can’t possibly trust that—”

“I _don’t_ trust her,” Fareeha says, “I just don’t think she had much incentive to lie to me, in that moment.  If she really wanted to, she could have shot me.  _Or_ had me arrested.  She did neither.”

A sigh from her mother, and she seems to deflate somewhat.  “I still don’t like this,” says she, and Fareeha wants to point out that of course she does not, has rather personal stake, right now, in this, given what was said about her, specifically.  Far easier to believe that a woman who thinks her is unstable than to admit that it might, maybe, be a logical conclusion, given the evidence.  “And she agreed to work with you after all that?  Or did she just let you go, and we’re going to have to kidnap her anyway?”

“She agreed!”  Fareeha says, hastily as possible, “She’s not very _happy_ about it, but she recognized this,” a vague handwave towards the device, “As Liao’s work, so she’s going to help.”

“Did she?”  This seems to catch Ana off-guard.

“Yeah.  Apparently they marked all their stuff.  She wouldn’t tell me _how_ , so I couldn’t replicate it, I guess, but—she seemed persuaded.”

“Did they?”  Evidently her mother did not know either, which does not surprise Fareeha too much.  Her mother is certainly not a stupid woman, but she lacks technical knowledge, and likely would not have paid much attention to Liao’s work, other than to know that it _did_ work.  Likely, she had other more practical concerns at the time, such as ensuring the rest of the team did not get shot.

Fareeha shrugs, “That’s what the doctor said, anyway.  Maybe that was a bluff, too, but it seemed reasonable.  I definitely didn’t persuade her by speaking.”

A hum from her mother, “She _can_ be very contrary.  Once she gets an idea in her mind that you’re wrong, you can’t say one thing right to her.”

Well, Fareeha thinks, that might be the pot calling the kettle black, but she does not disagree with Ana’s assessment.  Nothing about Doctor Ziegler’s public persona prepared Fareeha for how _ornery_ she is.

“Contrariness aside,” Fareeha says, “She agreed to work with us, _and_ apologized for insinuating that you might be a traitor, I might add.”  Actually, she apologized for insinuating as much _to Fareeha,_ in the tone that she did, and not for the belief itself, but somehow Fareeha doubts that her mother would be happy to hear as much, or that the distinction would matter.

“Us?  I thought you told her I was dead.”  Her mother’s tone is _just_ this side of dangerous.

“I did,” Fareeha says, “Calm down.  Just a misstatement.  She knows you’re ‘dead,’ and says she’ll help us figure out what’s wrong if we prepare scans of Anubis for her and give an example of typical readouts.  Which obviously I couldn’t do since I don’t even know how this thing turns _on,_ so I told her I’d go back to the Temple tonight and get more recent data.”

“You may have accidentally told the truth,” her mother tells her, “I don’t know if the anomaly was static or growing, so we probably _should_ go back in tonight, just to be sure.”

“We?”  To say that stealth is not Fareeha’s area of expertise is an understatement.  Always, she has been very upfront about her intentions, in everything that she does, war included.  She would much rather shoot an enemy in the face than the back, even if it _is_ more dangerous to do so.

“Yes, we,” her mother sounds almost cross with her, “You work there.  If anyone will be able to get past security, it should be you.”

Reasonable, but, “You didn’t have any trouble breaking in before.”

A roll of her mother’s eyes, and Fareeha hates how inadequate it makes her feel, when her mother does as much, as if she were still a child asking annoying questions, “And you _caught_ me, so clearly we need a better plan.”

Oh, right.

In all fairness to Fareeha, it still does not feel as if her mother failed, really.  She got what she wanted, and if Fareeha had been anyone else, she would have killed her, and escaped without any trouble.

Come to think of it, however, Fareeha _does_ rather like her coworkers, and prefers that her mother not kill them, if at all possible.  Especially Saleh.

“Fair enough,” says she.  “I’ll do my best to draw up the layout of the facility.”

“Don’t you have access to the plans?  You _are_ in charge of security.” 

“I’m not the chief,” says Fareeha, thinks _yet,_ “But anyway, if we fuck up and leave any evidence we’ve been there, it’d look awfully incriminating if I had just checked the schematics the same day, especially while on leave.” 

“You’re right,” her mother says, “I shouldn’t have questioned you.”

It is not the first time this has happened in the past few days, her mother acquiescing and acknowledging that Fareeha is right, about some things, that she might, in some cases, know better than Ana, but still, it catches Fareeha off guard.  It feels good, of course it does, to be so acknowledged, makes a warmth grow inside of her, since her mother would never have said as much, a few years ago, but it also makes her very, very confused. 

Ana _never_ admits when she is wrong.

For now, Fareeha will not look that gift horse in the mouth, will focus, instead, on the task at hand, on making a plan to break into the facility, _un_ detected this time, so as to avoid having to shoot her coworkers, especially the ones she likes best, and makes a note to herself that all of these security weaknesses are going to have to be fixed, as soon as she returns to work.

Fortunately, and unfortunately, she does not see much in the way of easy avenues to break in, and so while it does make her feel good about her job in general, the work that she does, it _is_ rather frustrating at the moment.  Perhaps she is a bit _too_ good at her job.  If this had happened two months ago, _before_ she noticed the hole in—

A good several hours pass, as Fareeha works to formulate a plan, her mother butting in only now and again with suggestions and clarifying what she is and is not capable of doing, from a tactical perspective.  Climbing the outside of the main chamber of the temple is, apparently, out, and Fareeha wonders how, then, her mother fell from the ceiling in the first place, but by the time that occurs to her, her mother has vanished on a quest to procure a few changes of clothes and food for lunch.

Fareeha can hardly complain about that, her mother going out to get such things, because her mother _has_ been in the same clothes for the last two and half days, and Fareeha really would rather she smelled a bit nicer, and she really does not want her mother to try to cook again, is already dreading inspecting the damage that was done in the first attempt.  In any case, she can just ask later. 

Or, she _could_ , but by the time Ana is back, Fareeha has reached a point at which she thinks her plan is satisfactory, and crawled into bed for a well-deserved nap, having not slept the night before and feeling rather exhausted.  It would be better, perhaps, to have gone over the plan before doing so, but she does not know when her mother will be home, and she knows that on missions such as this, exhaustion can be deadly.

By the time she wakes, it is dinner time, and all thoughts of the inconsistencies in her mother’s story have fallen from her head.  All she knows, in that moment, is that she is _hungry,_ and whatever takeout her mother has procured smells delicious.

So when she stumbles out of bed, and to the table, she does not think to ask the proper questions.  Instead, her first coherent thought, five minutes into dinner, is “Wait, this isn’t my tupperware.”

“Don’t talk with your mouth full,” her mother scolds her, eating properly as ever, with only her right hand.

“Sorry,” Fareeha says, conditioned to do so after having been chastised for the same a thousand times in her childhood, and then, “Did you _steal_ this?”

“I couldn’t very well buy anything,” her mother sounds almost defensive, “I’m _dead_ , remember?”

“Mum!  I could’ve ordered takeout.”  Although, now that she thinks about it, she does not know what portion of her inheritance is actually going to be hers, if her mother is actually alive, and she probably _should_ get that sorted and rework her budget before making any purchases, even if she could certainly afford takeout semi-regularly on just her own salary.

“You _could_ have,” her mother agrees, “But what I it had arrived when you were asleep, and only I were here to pick it up?  And I needed to get clothes, anyway.  It makes sense that I grabbed this.”

It does, but, “You stole the clothes, too, didn’t you?”  Now that she thinks about it, they do not look particularly _new_ , do not have that fresh pressed look, and they smell freshly laundered, by a detergent other than Fareeha’s preferred brand.

“I took them from the largest house in the neighborhood,” her mother says, “It’s not as if they can’t be replaced.”

Well, at least theft explains the change in her mother’s sense of style, her usual preference for dark solid colors supplanted by a rather garish pink floral patterned blouse, and pink pants to match.  But it does raise another concern, namely, “I hope you don’t intend to break into the facility in _that._ ”

“No,” her mother laughs, “ _My_ clothes are washing right now.”

Small mercies.  Stealth would be a complete impossibility in such clothing.  “Do you have another set of clothes for tomorrow?”  Fareeha does not like the idea of doing the washing every day, particularly for just one outfit.  It is wasteful. 

“Unfortunately similar in nature to these, but yes.”   Well, Fareeha supposes that beggars—or opportunistic thieves, in this case—cannot be choosers, and it _is_ funny to see her mother, usually so understated, in such clothing. 

“My condolences,” says she, unable to keep the humor out of her voice.  Always, her mother has called _Fareeha’s_ taste in clothes garish, and now the tables have turned.

Joking like this with her mother, it feels _normal._ Aside from the fact that they are planning to infiltrate a facility containing a God Program this very night, and joking about theft, it feels like it could be any other dinner, with any other family, and there is a strange pang at Fareeha’s heart, thinking of that.  Never did she want to be a normal family, always she was proud of the work her mother did, and if that meant being away often, then so be it, but now, now she wonders how things might have been, had she been someone else, had her _mother_ been someone else, had they had different opportunities, the two of them.  When they are not discussing work, or the law, they get along well enough, and Fareeha thinks maybe it could have been like this, always, in another world.

But would either of them have been happy like that?  Who would Fareeha be, without her commitment to service?  She does not, cannot know.  Her whole life has been built around, and in reaction to, who her mother is.  If Ana were different, Fareeha cannot imagine what she herself would be like.  So maybe it is wrong, to wish for a life like that, wrong to hope that they have more nights like this, in the future, is like wishing for herself to be unmade, and her mother somehow lesser.  That is not something Fareeha could ever, would ever want.  Better to be strong, and to do good things, than to have more opportunities like this.  She knows that, she does, and she can learn to accept it, too.

But she wishes her mother laughed more, that both of them did.  It would be nice, to have just one normal day.

Maybe they will have one, one day, but not now.  For as dinner draws to an end, Fareeha has to pull up her plans, has to walk her mother through why they are infiltrating exactly when they are, the windows of opportunity she can exploit, the little things about her own teammates she would use against them.  To do so feels wrong, feels like a betrayal, and yet, it must be so.  A worse betrayal would be to let everyone die by failing, or to not know these things, and therefore risk running into a needing to dispose of one of her comrades. 

Still, a slippery slope, and she finds herself again fearing that she _is_ becoming like her mother, more and more.  Perhaps after all this is said and done, she will not try to join her mother, after all.  Perhaps she will steer clear of any Overwatch related activity.  With helix, she can do her part to protect the world at a lesser cost, surely.

Or, perhaps not.  Perhaps the cost in working with such an organization is the lesser stakes, and the fact that her higher ups choose for her where and when she will serve.  If there is a real emergency, it might not even be Fareeha’s team who is deployed, experimental as their Raptora suits are.  And then what?  Will Fareeha sit idly by, and watch others save the world again?  If she were working with her mother, with the remnants of Overwatch, then at least she could choose for herself when to intervene. 

But there are command structures and rules for a reason, Fareeha knows, and she will do her best to follow them.  She is not omniscient, is far from perfect, does not always know what is best to do.  To operate without oversight is dangerous for anyone, even her mother.

Yet it is what she, too, has agreed to do right now, operating without oversight.  They and they alone are deciding what actions are appropriate to take, and if her mother chooses wrongly, will Fareeha stop her?

No, probably not. 

Instead, she will step aside, will trust that her mother is doing well and—

No, she cannot.  She knows better, now, than to trust her mother, knew well enough to defy her back when she enlisted.  No matter how grateful she is for Ana’s return, no matter how much more her mother knows about the present situation than she, no matter if her mother threatens her with action, she _must_ stand her ground, must insist on what she knows to be right.  After all, Doctor Ziegler’s words rang a bit too true for Fareeha to dismiss them entirely, and she would be remiss if she did not prepare herself for the fact that her mother might be a traitor after all, that she might be in danger, that the world might. 

She will not, cannot obey anyone blindly.  Not her mother, not her own organization.  Wrong as it feels to disobey orders, to break the law, Overwatch’s shut down and the information revealed about their covert operations in the process have taught Fareeha that no one is a true moral authority, and that she must not listen to orders blindly.  She cannot say, for certain, if she would have gone along with what they did, in Blackwatch, but she can do her best to ensure that she will not be that sort of person in the future.

That began with not kidnapping the doctor, and it continues, now, with not blindly following her mother.  _Blind faith,_ some might have called it, and unlike her mother, who so supported Overwatch, and Blackwatch with them, Fareeha is an atheist.  There is no power greater than man, and there is no _evil_ greater than man either. 

Man, and woman, or person, as the case may be.  All of them have potential for corruption, to be wrong, to be so taken in by the desire to do what is good that they cannot see that what they are doing is as bad as the evils they are attempting to stop.

Or, nearly as bad.  Fareeha rather thinks that nothing is as bad as the world ending, but then she thinks about her mother telling her, the other day, that the world ending in two weeks was not a great priority, because the world is _always_ ending, and then she thinks, well, it would be easy, then, to excuse anything, if one _always_ felt the stakes were so high.  Fareeha does not want that, to become so numb to the state of things, so jaded. 

But, then, perhaps her mother is not so jaded as Fareeha thinks, for when she walks out in her own tactical gear, or what she thinks will work for it, her mother laughs at her.

“You watch too many action movies,” Ana tells her.

“What?  Black is sensible for sneaking around in the shadows!”  Or, Fareeha thinks it is.  Admittedly, she has never in her life had to do anything stealthy. 

“That may be, but you hardly need the hat,” her mother plucks it off Fareeha’s head as she speaks.

“It’s black too!”  and Fareeha thinks, privately, that it makes her _look_ like a spy, or a thief, and maybe her mother is right about her watching too many action movies, now that she thinks about it…

“And so is your _hair_ ,” her mother tells her.  “Better to just remove the beads.”

“I love those!” Fareeha protests, “You gave them to me.  I haven’t taken them off except to wash since you died.”

An inscrutable look from her mother, and then, “That’s very sweet, dear, but you don’t want to have your hair like that if we get into a fight.  They’re easy to grab hold of.”

Ah, here Fareeha has a clever justification: “So I can tuck them up into the hat.”

A roll of her eyes from her mother, and then, “Fine, if it makes you happy.  But you look ridiculous, and the black doesn’t matter.  Some of our best stealth agents _glowed._ ”

Well, perhaps the black does not matter, but Fareeha _feels_ more like a stealth agent in it, and does that not matter, getting into the right frame of mind?

 _No_ , she is certain her mother would say, if she said that, _You’re being ridiculous,_ but Fareeha does not care.  It is nice to argue something like this, a petty concern, to distract herself from the anxiety she is feeling.  This is not her forte, and she knows that if anything goes wrong, it could mean the end to her entire career, something she would _very much_ prefer to avoid, if at all possible.

“Are we ready to go, then?” she asks her mother, and Ana nods her assent.  For a moment, they seem in perfect sync, before they nearly walk into each other heading in opposite directions.

“Door’s that way,” Fareeha says, pointing over Ana’s shoulder with an open hand.

“I _know_ ,” her mother tells her, “But we don’t want to be seen on camera leaving your apartment on the same night a break-in occurs, if we are spotted.  We need to take at least _some_ precautions, and I can’t be seen at all.  I’m going out the bedroom window.”

That makes sense, but “I thought you said no climbing?”

“We’re on the top floor, I’m getting on the roof then taking the fire escape.  That’s hardly as much work as scaling the temple proper.”

Fair enough, Fareeha supposes, and follows her mother out into the dark of the night. 

From the ease with which Ana traverses the rooftop, and sneaks through the city, hugging the back alleys and avoiding security cameras at every turn, Fareeha gets the sense that her mother either has a good deal more experience in covert ops than she was previously led to believe, or she has canvassed the neighborhood thoroughly, and recently. 

Either, Fareeha does not like.

The former would mean that her mother was even more heavily involved in Blackwatch proceedings than Fareeha feared initially, which means that she is not, in fact, the woman Fareeha always looked up to.  That is a problem in and of itself, because then there _is_ a good deal to question, with the morality of her mother’s decisions, and therefore of the ones made pertaining to this mission. 

And the latter?  It is worse, if anything, the thought that her mother has been here recently, for it means that Ana has been watching her, has been keeping an eye on her, and must have seen how she was suffering, following her ‘death’ and Overwatch’s fall, and did nothing despite that.  She would have known, must have, if she knows so well the path from Fareeha’s home to her work, how Fareeha was feeling, and never once thought to intervene, let her to her misery.  How cruel must her mother be, if that is so?

Thoughts of this occupy Fareeha the entire journey to the Temple of Anubis, and through the gates, haunt her as they make their way through a vulnerability in the security, a spot Fareeha knows has little enough camera coverage at night that it is where she, and her fellow members of the security force, go and smoke on their break.  They really _do_ need to fix that, but Fareeha is not looking forwards to her colleagues’ ire if they discover that _she_ was the reason they cannot have a smoke in their time off the clock.

Through the gap she and her mother go, and through the back door, and they wait there in the hallway as they listen for footsteps, wait for one pass, two, three, until they are certain they have the timing right, and then rush down the hallway, around the corner, and into the breakroom, which Fareeha knows will be empty, given that shifts changed only 45 minutes ago, and they wait, again, for the pattern, wait until they know that Tariq will pass them and then, they bolt again, down another corner and, this time, into the women’s restroom to wait.  Here they need not worry about being disturbed—Fareeha is the only woman ever on the night shift, so there will not be anyone who needs to use this room for the time being.  Once inside, Fareeha breathes a sigh of relief—that is most of the danger of the night gone.  Now, they need only wait.

And wait.

And wait. 

At some point on his shift, Fareeha knows, Ahmad _always_ leaves to use the restroom, and he certainly takes his time in so doing.  Fareeha has never questioned it, always felt a bit awkward bringing the matter up, and knows she is not the person responsible for doing so, in any case, but it _is_ a security risk, certainly, that he is away from his post of a solid twenty minutes.

Tonight, that is a lucky thing for Fareeha, for she knows Ahmad is the one in the innermost portion of the Temple, learned from contacting Saleh, and asking as if she felt guilty, who was covering her shift, claiming that she had plans to make it up to them later.  She will, of course, actually be doing so, because she _does_ feel rather bad about how much time off she is taking, being the sort who generally _never_ goes on vacation, but this was her primary motivation, discovering whom it was so that she might easily exploit their unique foibles in order to find her way into where she needs to be.

All told it is another hour and a half before they hear Ahmad enter the other restroom, and Fareeha knows it is him from the way he whistles as the way he walks into the room.  _Finally_ , thinks she, rather sick of having to sit in the public restroom, even if it _is_ rather clean, having not been used since the evening cleaning crew came through.

Down the hallway she and her mother go, the black she has worn in fact standing out quite badly against the tiles, brightly lit, gleaming.  Her heart pounds as they make their way to the antechamber, because this is the longest stretch they will spend in the open, the time at which they are most likely to be discovered, even by chance.

There are security sensors, and Fareeha knows they _could_ be detected by them at any given moment.  Theoretically, Fareeha is invisible to them, as she has authorization to be here, and her mother ought to be allowed to pass freely, too, for all the higher-ranking guards have in the system an acknowledgement that they must sometimes bring trainees with them, but that is not terribly reassuring.  To the naked eye, they are still visible, and if anyone does decide to check the cameras, normally only used as backup if a sensor goes off, then they _will_ be seen.  Not to mention the fact that the system _will_ have a record, if worst comes to worst, of Fareeha having been here, tonight.  Perhaps it will be dismissed as a glitch, but perhaps not. 

Despite the anxiety she feels when one of her shoes squeaks on the tile, despite the racing of her heart, things go well, and before Fareeha has time to panic, to over think things, they are in the main chamber of the Temple, and it is empty, just as she predicted it would be, Ahmad having left it unattended for the time being.

Somehow, it inspires more awe like this, when she should not be here.  Always it is large, and dark, and the shadows seem somewhat sinister, but now that feeling is amplified.  The architecture does the room no favors, a relic of a past when Egypt was one of the more powerful nations in the world, when they built great monuments for gods who did nothing for them, when invaders came, and the scale of it, as the scale of all things so ancient, makes Fareeha feel terribly small, as if the darkness of the shadows the too-tall columns cast could swallow her up—and she is not so short as to be easily swallowed.  With the ancient nature of the building comes too the weight of history, her own and her nations’, the knowledge that all of humanity has built to this, to this moment, and to the thing it contains.

That, of course, more than anything is what makes the room sinister, the Anubis AI.  One shining piece of technology in an ancient stone Temple, which has stood for millennia, yet nonetheless is threatened by a tiny, tiny piece of technology contained within, a single chip which holds one of the God Programs which nearly destroyed humanity altogether.  No matter how many nights Fareeha spends in this place, guarding that thing, she knows she is never truly safe, so long as it exists.  At any time, it might break containment, at last, might find its way out of the firewall that Overwatch built around it and then Fareeha will be at ground zero for the new Crisis, will be one of the first people inevitably eradicated as it spreads an infects all omnics in the area. 

For a time, there was talk of a law about that, restricting the movement of omnics and ordering them not to pass within a certain number of meters of the Temple, to try and delay a break, but it did not pass, and Fareeha does not mind that, truly, thinks that such is for the best, given that it is preemptive punishment, but she remembers her worry, when she discovered that Helix was potentially recruiting an omnic to her team, and she knows that _if_ the time comes that Anubis breaches, if she fails, then she and her team will be among the earliest deaths.  It is a risk she accepts, but one that nonetheless makes her shudder, in the cool night air.

Deeper they walk into the chamber, and deeper still, darkness swallowing them up and leaving only the light of the hallways behind.  Darkness and, in the center of the chamber, the smallest of lights, emitting from the AI in containment, a bright, electric blue.  Unlike the deep blue of Overwatch, comforting to Fareeha, this blue is not a natural one, stands in sharp contrast with the warm yellow of the temple, something too bright, too artificial.  Fareeha longs to return to the darkness, as she steps into that harsh artificial glow.

But there are things to be done here, and Fareeha cannot avoid this forever, has a mission, has to look at the thing and see—

—A sight simultaneously disappointing and massively relieving.  Despite her worries, and her purpose here, the God Program looks no different from normal, seems completely contained, despite what her mother has said.  That is good: Fareeha has not the expertise to do anything about the program in an emergency.  In fact, she does not know why she has looked at I so often before to know _what_ normal looks like, there has never been any need for her to do so.  Her job is to guard the Temple against intruders, something she is currently failing spectacularly at, and not to contain the AI itself.

Still, it draws her in, has a pull to it, mesmerizing, the knowledge that this little thing could end her world, if only someone did one thing wrong, and freed it.  Hers is a morbid fascination, an inability to look away, even as she knows that she _should._ All her life has been lived in the specter of this chip, its sheer destructive capability and in person?  It is small, a tiny thing, something she thinks would be easily crushed if only they could let it out of containment even for a moment.

She wants to reach out, wants to see if—

“ _Shit_!” Her mother, beside her, and the spell which has taken over Fareeha, the terrible compulsion is broken at once, and forgotten entirely.

“What’s wrong?”  Of all the times and places for someone to suddenly swear, Fareeha would certainly put this in the top ten.

“ _This_ ,” her mother says, waving the device in front of her face, “It’s broken!”

 _Broken?_ How?  Ziegler—

“Are you certain?” Fareeha asks, because she did not _see_ the doctor do anything, but that does not mean that it did not happen.  She just needs to be sure.

“No, I’m in the habit of panicking unnecessarily in stressful situations,” her mother says, drily, “They didn’t make me a sniper for nothing, Fareeha.  I’m _always_ certain.”

Right.  Well, Fareeha has no argument against that, and there _is_ certainly something to be said for her mother’s extraordinary patience, in most circumstances, but still, it was worth asking, she thinks, worth double checking before she makes an accusation that may or may not be right, and will certainly have far reaching consequences.

“I didn’t see Doctor Ziegler tamper with anything, but—”

“But she _is_ the only other person who held it.”  Her mother finishes.  “Damn it!  I knew we couldn’t trust her.”

Although Fareeha wants to defend herself, to point out that the doctor could easily have tampered with the device whilst she was their captive, somehow she doubts that doing so would go over terribly well, right now, and she _was_ the only one with the doctor and the device, so she supposes this still is her fault, in a way.  But when would the doctor have had the chance to do anything?  Not at the café, surely, and she was only out of Fareeha’s sight in her clinic for a matter of seconds, during which her hands were full with a weapon and bioscanner first.  Something about it just does not make _sense._

Why break it?  Why do that and send them back to the Temple, unless—

“Mum,” Fareeha says, calmly as she can, “We need to leave, right now.”

For once, her mother does not question her, only nods her assent wordlessly and begins to make for the hallway.  A trap.  This was a trap, a set-up, to get them back into the building, and caught in the act, and Fareeha is already registered in the system as having been here, so—

No, no panicking now, she hears voices at the end of the hallway, from the direction they are heading in, her captain, and someone else with him, and Fareeha thinks _fuck_ , puts a hand on her mother’s shoulder, pulls her back, presses herself against the column, tries to slow here heart, her breathing, so she is quieter, as if those things could be heard from so far away.

But maybe they can, because a voice from the hallway, too familiar.  “Did you hear that?” says the person, “It sounded like it was coming from—”  _Please, god, don’t say_ “—the main chamber.”  _Fuck!_

Footsteps then, growing closer, and her mother has her gun, but Fareeha does not, could not very well get a rocket launcher into the facility safely and stealthily, but she wishes she had it now, for the footsteps are drawing closer, closer, and Fareeha cannot peak around the column to see how close they are, her perception of the exact distance thrown off by the echoing of the large chamber. 

If Fareeha were religious, she might pray, right now, might hope that the God her mother believes in will send a miracle their way.  Instead, she only stares at the AI, the only thing close to the true destructive power of a deity, looks at its sick glow at the end of the hall and thinks, _Please_ , _this can’t be the last thing I see._

Not Anubis.  Please, _please._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> >:3


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hewwo >:3

Anubis stares back at her, the blue of it so cold, so artificial, nothing like the blue of Overwatch, of her mother, of the sky as it turns to night.  What color were Doctor Ziegler’s eyes, really?  Were they blue like Overwatch, like all that is good and Fareeha can trusts, or were they cold, like this, did they have ice in them? 

Foolish of Fareeha to get lost in them, even for a second, foolish of her to be distracted by a pretty face.  Now what will become of her, of her mother?  Will they die here?  Or, worse, will they live, will she have to kill Saleh, and her captain, have to carry that guilt with her for the rest of her life, and become a fugitive, too?  She cannot do that.  It is not who Fareeha _is_ , she is not one for living on the run, has always worked to uphold the law, to work from within to change systems of injustice, not from _without_.  Her skills are not suited to such, and she knows already that it would make her deeply unhappy to even try.

But what is the alternative?  Would she let her mother die?  Or stand by idly as her mother kills her coworkers, her squadmates, her _friends_?

Terrible choices, all of them.  Being a soldier dooms one to such, to having to accept that sometimes, no option is a good one, but these are even worse than the usual set.  Here, she cannot possibly win, has no hope of making it out of this alive in the same way she is now, as the same person.  To do so would be impossible.

Yet, if Saleh and her captain come any closer, it _will_ come to that, to making a choice, deciding if she is going to be a killer or to passively allow her mother to potentially be killed, as if inaction were not itself an action.  In either case, she will become a criminal, will lose all that she has worked towards, in her career, and what for?

Because her mother promised her the chance to save the world? 

And what have they to show for that?  Only a threat of a kidnapping, some petty theft, and now this, a break in at a high security facility, which is about to dissolve into a firefight.  Not only have they only succeeded in committing various crimes, but they have _also_ managed to allow the one thing which might help them to solve their problems to be broken, and have no way of repairing it.

Silently, her mother presses a weapon into her hand.  Not a gun, quite, but something similar to it, a single dart in the chamber.  Is the safety off?  Fareeha hopes so, because she does not know how to work this weapon, does not want to die because she did not prepare adequately.  But she did not hear a click, nothing to alert her to the safety being turned off, so she must assume that it is on.  But where is the switch?  How to ensure it is ready to fire?  She cannot ask her mother, not now, has no way of communicating this problem, because both of her mother’s hands are full, so even if Fareeha did have time to fingerspell the problem with the one hand not clutching the weapon, her mother cannot answer.

She supposes she will just have to take on faith that her mother thought to turn off the safety.  Yet _faith_ is something Fareeha finds herself very short on, at the moment.

Worse and worse. 

But there is nothing to do about it now.  Fareeha has made her choices, and come to be here.  The consequences are on her head.  Whether she lives, or she dies, or—

—The footsteps stop, suddenly, and Fareeha holds her breath.  How close are they to her now?  Surely, they must be nearly at the end of the chamber.  Have they seen something, heard something?

Fareeha raises her weapon, prepares to round the column and shoot.  No time for hesitation, she must—

—Must not jump, as there is suddenly a sound to her left, and something darts past her vision.  On instinct, she nearly fires, only barely suppresses the urge to do so, to defend herself.  It is a lucky thing she does not.

“Ah, damn,” Saleh says, “Only another bulbul.”

And it is.  That panic she felt, that terror, it still courses through her veins, adrenaline far from faded, yet, but she starts to force herself to calm.  It was a bird, and nothing more, not a threat to her, at all, in fact it will spare her a good deal of trouble, and danger, if only Saleh turns away.

“Again?” her captain’s tone is light, amused, but she can tell from his inflection that he, too, is on edge, even if he is trying not to show it.  “They must have a nest in here somewhere.  We’ll have to find it.”

 _No,_ thinks Fareeha, _no, no, no._ They do not need to check now, surely, can go home, can sleep, can live to die another day, and not find what it is lurking in the shadows right now, not a bulbul but something bigger, Fareeha herself a bird of prey, even outside of her Raptora armor. 

“Tomorrow, right?” Saleh asks.  “Should be easier in the daylight.”

 _Yes_ , Fareeha thinks, _please leave, please._ If they can make it out of this without a confrontation, without violence, she might just make an effort to go to the mosque more regularly after all.

“You’re only eager to get home to your girlfriend, aren’t you?”  A pause, and Fareeha imagines her captain must be considering the matter, must be weighing in his mind whether it is better to deal with the problem now, as he has always preferred to do, not leaving work for later, or to let Saleh go home.

Tonight, he is merciful, and Allah also.  “I suppose,” says he, “It can wait until morning.”

In her hiding place, Fareeha is too afraid to sag with relief, worries that doing so will somehow make a noise, and raise suspicion again.  So she stays still, tense, listens as Saleh and her captain walk away, and away, and away, footsteps fading into the night.  It is a long thing, gradual, not the abrupt transition from living to dead that they might have suffered, at her hand, not the flicking of a switch, on to off, and she is grateful, for that.

After all this, they might live still to fade slowly out of her life. 

Might.  Maybe.

Only if Fareeha and her mother can prevent another Crisis, that is, for if not, then _no one_ will live long enough to pass out of Fareeha’s life, will all be dead abruptly.

That death is always abrupt is not something Fareeha forgets, precisely, but there is a different kind of death suffered when a person is shot, a suddenness and indignity unique to acts of violence.  She has seen both sorts of death, ones drawn out due to illness and old age and ones caused by herself, or enemy soldiers, and knows which she would prefer.  A long goodbye is difficult, but nothing could be worse than the shock, the indignation, the terror a person feels when suddenly they look down and realize they have only seconds left to live.  Those faces she has seen, those faces she has known, and she cannot conflate the two kinds of death, not even if she tries. 

All death is sudden, and all death is lonely, but some deaths are more sudden and more lonely than others.  What Fareeha wishes for her friends is _anything_ but that. 

Even early deaths to illness, always painful, bring with them the chance to say goodbye.  To survive her mother’s death was harder for its abruptness, and only now is she realizing how much damage was truly done to her, being unable to say goodbye. 

Her captain’s children will not be made to suffer that, not today.

And neither will she any longer, for her mother is here, putting a hand on her shoulder, saying “That voice was terribly familiar.  You serve with Khalil?”

“Under him,” Fareeha says, stiffly, and hushed.  She does not want to be making small talk now, is still concerned about their safety.  Let them gossip about with whom she works _later_ , when they are out of danger, rather than still standing in Anubis’ main chamber.

“Always thought he’d make a good commander, though I didn’t think he’d wind up somewhere like here,” her mother says, holding out a hand to take back her weapon from Fareeha.  When it is offered, she carefully reingages the safety, and holsters it—one question answered, at least. 

But here is another, “I thought you recommended him?”  Captain Khalil always gave that impression, anyway, from the way he talked about her mother.  If he did not mean that, then Fareeha has questions.  Several, in fact.

“Oh,” her mother says, then after a beat too long, “I did.  I only thought, after everything, that he would’ve had enough of fighting.  He never was quite suited to the life of a soldier the way the rest of us were.”

Well, this Fareeha can understand, even if there is something _off_ about her mother’s answer.  Her captain is indeed unlike most military men she has known.  Thorough as he can be outside of battle, serious and demanding, he always puts the lives of those under his command first, even when it means breaking orders.  Serving another commander, he might never have risen through the ranks, would have instead been punished for insubordination.  But her mother always cared more about her soldiers than she ought to have, according to everyone who served with her.  Fareeha cannot say how true this was, herself, cannot possibly know, but she thinks…

She does not know what she thinks.  Working with her mother is nothing like she imagined.  For one thing, her mother seemed awfully prepared to shoot the man she must have cared for, in the field.

Perhaps it is tactless, but she does point it out.  “You were ready to shoot him anyway.”

At this, her mother grins, broadly, and Fareeha gets the sense that were they not waiting currently behind a column, hoping to give Saleh and Captain Khalil time to make their way further from the path the two of them intend to travel out of the facility, her mother would be laughing, “Shoot, yes, but kill, no.”

In Fareeha’s experience, shooting people _usually_ means killing them, “And what if you somehow missed, and your non-lethal shot hit a bit too close to the heart.”

“I never miss,” her mother says, confident as ever, and Fareeha fights to resist the urge to roll her eyes.  Surely, her mother has missed a few times in her lifetime.  Was she not only two days ago telling Fareeha about how the Widowmaker shot her?  If they were dueling, her mother cannot have landed a killing blow, for that assassin has survived her, is still terrorizing the world.  “And even if I had, my shot didn’t kill you, did it?”

Here, her mother has a point.  “What _is_ that weapon?”  Not a gun, surely, or not the kind Fareeha has ever shot.

“Darts,” her mother tells her, and before Fareeha can say that such was, in fact, rather obvious, from the way the dart itself is partly exposed in the chamber, she adds, “I’m not certain, exactly, what goes into them, but we developed them in the labs in Overwatch.  Production was too costly for them to see field use, but they’re non-lethal, barring an atypical reaction to the formula.  Most people just go down for a little nap.”

“I see,” Fareeha says, although she wonders how they could possibly function, how the dosage could be correctly attuned to people of various sizes without killing the small ones and leaving the large awake.  From what Fareeha understands of anesthesia, it is a very delicate science, without a terribly great margin for error. 

“I know what you think,” her mother says, referencing, perhaps, their earlier arguments, “But I do prefer not to kill people, dear.  Not when I can avoid it.” 

Bold words, coming from a sniper known for her accuracy and high kill count, and especially so from a woman who did not leave the field even at an age when it would have been appropriate for her to do so, insisted upon remaining hands-on, being there to dole out death herself.  In theory, it was about protecting her soldiers, or so she has said, keeping those beneath her from being killed, but Fareeha is not sure how much she believes that, how much anyone could.  It takes a special sort of resolve to be a sniper.  Most soldiers fire half on instinct, fear making it easier to kill, time and again, adrenaline helping to ease the squeezing of the trigger, but not snipers.  Every kill, a sniper plans carefully, and never do they let their heartrate raise too high.  That is the sort of woman her mother is, the sort of soldier, the sort of killer, cold and calculated, time and again.  With great deliberateness, she chose that others should die, at that time, at that place, at her behest.

That is fine, Fareeha can accept that, can understand that there is a need for people like her mother.  It does not mean that she believes Ana prefers to avoid killing, however.  To say so would be to stretch the limits of her imagination.  What she does believe is this: after a longer period of time away from combat than she is accustomed to, her mother is beginning to have regrets, or to perhaps think of herself differently, to rewrite her own history in a way that paints her as a better woman, a less complicated one.  Most people would want to do so, Fareeha understands, but it does not make it _true._

Her mother is a killer, through and through, and the weapon she handed to Fareeha may have been non-lethal, but the one she held in her own hand was _not._ If the time had come, she would have fired, would have had to.

So why lie?  Is it for her own comfort, or Fareeha’s?

Part of Fareeha is desperate to know the answer to that question, to decide what kind of woman her mother is, after, all, and to pasts judgement accordingly, but she knows this is neither the time nor the place.  The longer they are here, the more danger they are in. 

Her mother is alive, again, and there will be time enough for them to fight later.  Perhaps after all this is done, when Fareeha is not in here, with her mother, trapped, their escape dependent on neither of them betraying the other.

No, there are certainly better times to press people. 

Silence, again.  Their pre-agreed upon waiting period, if someone startled them, was ten minutes.  Close to that has passed, and Fareeha is having to resist the urge to tap her foot.  They have to wait long enough that Captain Khalil and Saleh are not going to be in the way of their escape route, but not so long that Ahmad returns from the restroom.  A difficult balancing act.

“Do you think the coast is clear, now?” asks she, hoping that her mother will say _yes._

Tonight seems to be going in Fareeha’s favor, more often than not, despite the many scares along the way, for her mother does, indeed, say, “You would know better than I, but I think so, yes.”

So they slip out, again form behind the column, steal their way across the main chamber of Anubis’ Temple, and Fareeha tries to will away the feeling of eyes at her back, following her every move.  No one is here, or they would be dead already.  No one is watching them, save for the bulbul.  Anubis cannot see, cannot here, is a _program_ and not a living, breathing thing.

Still, she cannot shake the feeling on the entire journey out of the facility, not as they round the corner into the hallway, not as they dart past the bathroom and into the breakroom, not as they make it from there to the exit, out into the smoking area, and through the gap in the fence.  From this side, it is harder to leave, and Fareeha has to give her mother a little boost over the column they dropped down from, and even then she feels it, the _watching_ , even though she knows logically that the only one watching her before was her mother, who now stands ahead of her by several meters.

Who could have seen them?

No one, nothing.  Anubis is dormant, still, and the god never was, was only a story people told themselves to make sense of the chaotic world they lived in, to bring themselves some small measure of comfort when the people they loved died.  No one is ever weighed, after their death, no one lives in some glorious afterlife, and certainly, no one is ever brought back to life. 

Are they?

No, her mother never died, so it does not matter that she is here, now.  Anubis did not bring her back.  It is dormant, still, and there is no _true_ god in that temple, only an AI.

All the way home, the feeling stays, and she wonders—do the security cameras nearby turn towards them, as they pass?  Is that an unusual light she sees, in a window?  Do the not-quite-camels look at her differently than usual?

No, no, and no.  Nothing is watching them, and no one, save perhaps for Allah, if one were to ask her mother, and if he is real, Fareeha is certain he does not feel like this, like creeping dread and ice at her back.

That is not a kind or merciful god.

After a rather heated discussion with her mother, in which the pros and cons of kidnapping Doctor Ziegler are _again_ weighed, Fareeha is able, at last, to get a good night’s sleep, or something approaching it.  What she dreams of, she does not know, but when she wakes, she feels hot, and not cold, any longer, something itching under her skin.  Anxiety?  Anticipation?  Whatever it is, it is warm, and she does her best to forget the feeling of last night, to put behind her the idea of being watched by an all-seeing all-knowing thing, wanting only to destroy, without any shred of mercy.

Instead, she focuses on what she is going to do with _Mercy_ , how she is going to approach the woman, this time.  At least she has convinced her mother that a kidnapping is not yet necessary, has pointed out that the doctor would only be more likely to sabotage them, in such a situation.  This time, she has a plan: she will demand Doctor Ziegler fix the device, and not leave until she sees it turned on, and is ensured that it has been repaired.

Unlike last time she even knows, now, how to turn the thing on for herself, has prepared well enough that she will be able to ascertain if the good doctor is being honest.  That she really _should_ have known, last time, she does not dwell on.  It is far better to focus on the positive, on the things that have changed, to learn from her and her mother’s past mistakes and not to repeat them, ensuring that this goes as smoothly as possible. 

Which may, in fact, not be very smoothly at all.  Fareeha is beginning to believe that her mother’s assessment of Doctor Ziegler’s character was entirely correct, and the woman may simply be too difficult to attempt to cooperate with.  Even the prospect of verbally sparring with her again is giving Fareeha a bit of a headache, and she wonders how a woman like that was ever praised for her bedside manner.  To Fareeha, she seems utterly incapable of such.

But, then again, Fareeha is not her patient, and whether the doctor knows it or not, Fareeha _is_ deserving of her suspicion, of her ire, because she has, twice in 72 hours, entertained the thought of kidnapping her. 

That is not going to happen, not yet, is more trouble than it is worth, particularly if the doctor is meeting with city authorities about her clinic, for they would, surely, note her absence.  They might be grateful for it, at first, but ultimately it is surely bad for tourism and the reputation of the city if a world-renowned doctor and scientist, one who has remained well-liked despite her role within Overwatch, goes missing there.  Something like that, Fareeha knows, hurts the whole community as it damages the local economy.

Of course, Fareeha does not care for tourism, wishes her country’s economy did not depend so much on it, but their largest government-sponsored attempt of breaking free from such, generating new jobs and new income, was the Anubis Project, and Fareeha knows where that has left them.  Anubis slaughtered people, and the only jobs it has generated are ones like her own, guarding it.  To disdain those individuals who would rather serve tourists, to sell fantasies about their culture, work she thinks cheapens their rich history and debases them all in the process, would be to ignore the economic realities that have led them all here, and to purposefully overlook the fact that some people will never be comfortable near Anubis, not after what it did to all of them.  There are greater market forces at play than individual tour guides and gift shop owners, and it is the people responsible for _that_ , for exotifying her country, for exploiting it, making it difficult for them to compete in a global economy, that she blames for the existence of such, not her countrymen.

But there is nothing Fareeha can do, now, to stop imperialism.  What happened to her country is centuries in the past, and she lacks the power, now, to reshape it.  All she can do is be aware of the realities of her situation—that one missing white woman will cause a good deal more trouble than she ought, for far more people than for Fareeha and her mother.  As such, she considers kidnapping the doctor a last resort, not only because she has a problem with kidnapping, morally, but more importantly because the livelihoods of too many innocent people could be impacted by doing so.  

This, at least, her mother finds a persuasive argument—far more so than to be told that _kidnapping is wrong_.  Of course it is.  So, too, is killing people, and yet they have both made careers out of doing as much, if to different degrees.  To do the wrong things for the right reasons is the conceit of being a soldier, one they have both long since accepted, if Fareeha somewhat more begrudgingly.

So for now, Doctor Ziegler has her freedom, even if she will never know that it is by Fareeha’s grace she is still able to sit and enjoy the sunshine, this Saturday morning as she drinks her coffee.

“Good morning, Lieutenant Amari,” says she, voice polite as can be, even if Fareeha suspects, from something in the way she holds herself, she is not particularly happy to have company this morning.

“Is it?” Fareeha asks.  Very bold, thinks she, of the doctor to greet her so cheerfully given what she has done.

If Doctor Ziegler notices Fareeha’s tone, she does not seem to think it worth remarking upon.  She does drop her smile a bit, however, as she says, “I’ll just finish this, if you don’t mind, and then we can head inside.”

“I do,” Fareeha says.

“What?”

“Mind.”  In fact, Fareeha is far more aware, after their last meeting, of just how exposed this little courtyard is, and knows this is not a safe place to make a scene, even if she wants to do so, noticed the policeman less than a block away, standing guard outside an old building, knows just how quickly he could come running, if the shopkeeper—whom the doctor yesterday thanked by first name—decides there is trouble, and sends for him.

“Ah,” says Doctor Ziegler, “I see.”  Very slowly, she sets down her cup, and stands, calls out to the café owner, again, tells him she is terribly sorry for leaving her coffee half finished, but that her business is urgent, and leaves more money, Fareeha thinks, than the drink is worth, for the rudeness.

There is a reply, which Fareeha mostly ignores, in favor of looking at the doctor, examining in the lines of her clothing, trying to see if anywhere she can spot a concealed weapon, like last time, or anything else of the sort.  Nowhere on the doctor’s person does there seem to be a line out of place, but it is hard to be entirely certain, as her clothing is again loose below the bust, and mostly modest, whether by personal preference or out of respect for the past norms of the country, Fareeha is not certain. 

Unlike yesterday’s clothing, a loose long sleeve blouse and wide-leg pants, with a large purse across her body, today the doctor is wearing a dress—not to meet Fareeha, surely, and she wonders where Doctor Ziegler has been this morning, that she would be dressed in such a way.  She wears no hat, either, hair tied back, and Fareeha thinks that, at least, is to her advantage; if things come to a fight between the two of them, it will be easy enough to get a hold in the doctor’s bun, and to pull her by the hair.

Not that Fareeha anticipates a fight.  It is just better to be prepared.

When Doctor Ziegler is done paying, and has managed to politely extricate herself from conversation with the café owner who seems to take the word _urgent_ in the way that most of Fareeha’s countrymen do, as a suggestion, she gestures for Fareeha to follow her inside the building, and this time, with a good deal more caution, Fareeha does.

The half-finished nature of the interior still reminds Fareeha of a horror movie, sheets hanging in front of doorways, and equipment all out of place, but this time, at least, she knows what it is she is expecting, and full of a fair bit of righteous indignance, after what the doctor did to her yesterday, both pulling a gun on her and setting her up, Fareeha is far less intimidated.  Again, she follows Doctor Ziegler up the stairs, and again, down the hall, but this time, the doctor turns right, not left, opens a door across from the one that led to the safe room, to what looks like a personal office.

“I’m not going to walk in first,” Fareeha says, when the doctor gestures for her to enter, “I’m sure you’ll understand.”  She is _not_ going to turn her back on the other woman again, not if she can help it.

This seems to amuse Doctor Ziegler, her lips quirking upwards in a smile, “I assure you,” says she, “I’m unarmed.  It’s a Saturday.”

Fareeha does not know what days of the week have to do with threatening to shoot people, and is glad when the doctor moves past her and into the office, despite her statement, does not say anything because she has nothing in particular _to_ say, and has decided that engaging in conversation with Doctor Ziegler is to be avoided, when possible.  Best just to get done what she needs to, and spare herself the trouble of exchanging pleasantries with someone whom she is going to threaten.

Despite being told her physique and professional demeanor are intimidating, this sort of thing is not something Fareeha is actually good at, coercing other people by _strongly suggesting_ that it would be a bad idea to oppose her.  At heart, Fareeha is not the right sort of person for such a thing, is far more friendly and good-humored than others give her credit for.  If work requires it of her, she _can_ do this, can threaten people, because it is needed for the greater good, but if she could approach everyone with openness and friendliness, as she has been trying to do with the doctor so far, she would be much happier.  Perhaps she can understand why, given her career choice, people would believe otherwise, but Fareeha really does prefer violence as an absolute _last_ resort, thinks that it is important to have soldiers for when the worst happens, but would much rather that her job were entirely obsolescent.

This, her mother also claimed, once, to believe, in arguing against Fareeha enlisting.  Given her methods, Fareeha finds such a statement difficult to accept as truth, and she thinks, too, that if Ana really _did_ believe that there would be no need for soldiers, in Fareeha’s lifetime, that she is a good deal more short-sighted and foolish than Fareeha previously thought her to be.  As much as Fareeha _wishes_ that there were no need for fighting, or for killing, such is not the world that they live in, and for so long as that is the case, it is necessary that good people like herself, who detest killing, become soldiers, in order to keep the others in check.

So it is with great reluctance that Fareeha does not take the seat offered her, but instead looms across the desk at the seated doctor, arms crossed over her chest.

“You’re in a rather poor mood,” Doctor Ziegler observes.  “I take it the results were bad?”  She sounds worried, but not in the way one expects, from a woman being threatened, less immediately panicked and more resigned to some fate.  Usually, people are not so quick to reach that phase, and Fareeha is not sure how to proceed, with that being the case.

“You would know,” says she, settling for the old standby of tricking people into showing their hand by saying as much.  Subterfuge may not be her strongest suit, but she does at least have some basic training, and her mother gave her additional pointers last night, unimpressed by her recounting of her and the doctor’s prior encounter—one she gave trying to discover at what point the device could possibly have been tampered with.  Even now, she has no idea.  Evidently Doctor Ziegler’s hands are talented when it comes to more than just surgery.

At this, the doctor seems annoyed, impatient, agitated in the way that very worried people can be, “If you don’t show me the results then no, I wouldn’t.”

So this is how she is going to play it?  Feigned innocence?

“There aren’t any results.”

A very genuine-seeming confused expression from Doctor Ziegler, at that, “And I should know that how?”

Neither of them have time for this, surely.  Fareeha has a world to save and, if any of the many accolades the doctor has received are true, she, too, is a very busy woman.  “Because you broke this,” she sets the device down, as she says it, heavy on the table between them.

Rather than seeming offended by the accusation, or defensive, Doctor Ziegler laughs in surprise, “What?  When?”

“Last time I was here.”  Fareeha has no interest in playing games.

“And how do you think I did that, exactly?”  As she says this, she does not stand, but Fareeha watches her posture shift from something surprised to more defensive, as if she is preparing for a fight.  Fair enough, Fareeha thinks, given that she herself is armed, this time.  “I didn’t even know how to turn the damn thing _on_.”

“So you said.”  It would have been a very convenient excuse to avoid revealing that it had already been broken at that point, Fareeha thinks.

“And so I _meant_ ,” as she says this, she picks the device up in one of her hands, “Be reasonable, Lieutenant Amari.  Why would I do a thing like that?”

“To trap me.”

This, at least, seems to genuinely surprise the doctor, “Trap you?  If I wanted to do that, I would’ve just had the police come pick you up when we first arranged to meet, I should think, and wouldn’t have gone through the trouble of arranging to meet with you again today.”

“So you say,” Fareeha thinks that Doctor Ziegler is a very good liar, because she _sounds_ so genuine, as she says all of this.  “But catching me in the act would have been a greater crime, surely.”

“Yes,” this, at least they can agree upon, “But judging by the fact that you are here, you weren’t caught, were you?”

“We nearly were.”

Doctor Ziegler’s eyes narrow in an instant, “ _We_?  Who else is—”

“No one!” Fareeha says, and then, worrying that her lie is not convincing enough, “I meant you and me.”

“I wasn’t there to be—”

“I know,” Fareeha says, “But if I’m caught, and anyone looks into where I’ve been, who I’ve been talking to…”

“Verdammt,” Doctor Ziegler runs a hand over her face.  “I was so happy to be done with this sort of mess.”

“That’s exactly my concern,” that the doctor would not want to work with her, would sooner see her turned over to authorities than to be associated with Overwatch related activity again.

Now, Doctor Ziegler’s voice is sharper, “That isn’t what I meant.  I only think—” and now it grows tired, again, as she speaks, more resigned, “This isn’t what I wanted, when I signed up.  Saving people is the right thing to do, and I know that.  All the rest of this—what is legal, what isn’t, whether we’re _allowed_ to do what’s right—it’s a distraction.  One that innocent people can’t afford.  I want to be able to do my work in peace, that’s all.”

If the doctor is telling the truth—and, Fareeha begrudgingly admits to herself, yes, she does _seem_ to be, then Fareeha wholeheartedly agrees.  Saving people _should_ be as simple as that, should be so easy, because it is what is right to do, is what is good, and proper, and that ought to be enough for everyone.  Intellectually, she is aware of the dangers of such an approach, knows that a lack of oversight and regulations means that even people with the best of intentions can hurt others, and it is important to have laws in place, important to ensure that people are motivated not by ego but by a genuine commitment to help, important to verify that others have the training necessary, important to have oversight so that one person cannot justify everything to themself alone, and in the process fail to see the ways they are enacting violence upon others, important to ensure that one person’s biases do not cause them to overlook the ways in which they could do better, be better, but even knowing all these things, sometimes, it is hard.  Fareeha knows what feels right, knows what it is she believes would be the best course of action, knows what must be done, and to be held back by bureaucracy is stifling, makes her feel powerless.

It is a terrible thing, that feeling, powerlessness in the face of injustice, one that Fareeha would give much to be free from.  But now that she is doing this, is engaging in this one act of vigilante justice—she does not like it.  How much does she trust herself, really, to make the right choices?  How much does she trust her mother?  How much can she trust this virtual stranger sitting across from her, who says the right things, and seems to do the right things, but is still so unknown to her?

After this, Fareeha thinks, she will have to reconsider what it would mean to join Overwatch.  How much of this is she willing to deal with, how much is she willing to question?  At least, with Helix, there are stop-gaps in place—some.  Technically, they are subject to the oversight of local governments, and are contracted out to the UN in their work guarding the God Program, but their status as a part of a multinational conglomerate of corporations makes it hard to decide which laws they are subject to, if anyone wants them to face consequences, and their lawyers can ensure that any one person who is to blame can evade consequences by simply serving in another country, or being fired only to work at another corporation within their umbrella.  The people she works with, too, are oversight, a chain of command, but as much as she trusts them, trusts their judgement, it does not mean that they are infallible.  And not infallible, also, are the politicians who would make the laws, the judges who would serve as arbiters, the police who enforce.  In fact, they are anything but, are people drawn to power.

So perhaps it is fear that stops her from liking this vigilante life, not a belief in the system she follows.  Or, perhaps, she is being hasty, in generalizing like this, is only overthinking things, and truly does believe in the system, even if she recognizes its faults, and knows that they are many.  She does not know, suddenly, her life once so orderly thrown into such disarray over the last few days that she has begun to question her place in the world, what it means to live as she has, what other options she might have.  Most people do so, when grappling with a sudden reminder of their mortality, she knows, and it is amusing, in a way, that her faith in herself, in her choices, in her organization, would be so unshaken by her mother’s death, only to be cast into doubt by her mother’s _life._

Now is not the time for worrying about such things, however, the question at hand is not _Can she trust anyone?,_ it is _Can she trust Doctor Ziegler?_

Can she?

It truly is impossible to say, uncertain as Fareeha is as to what she herself believes, but she must make a choice, now, must decide whether or not she thinks it is worth it, to risk the world on trust.

What sort of question is that, really?  The world is at risk whether she trusts people or not.  Even if she cannot save humanity, she can at least save her _own_.

“I believe you,” says she, to the doctor who has been waiting, for some time now, for her response, and then, slightly more forced, “I’m sorry.”

“Considering I pulled a gun on you yesterday, I don’t think you need to apologize.”  She can see, now, the bravado in Doctor Ziegler’s response, the forced cheeriness—Fareeha’s silence must have worried her.

 _Good._ Just because Fareeha has decided to trust her, that does not mean that she needs the doctor to get _too_ comfortable.  Trust is all well and good, but it is also nice to know that worry is giving Doctor Ziegler an additional reason not to betray her.

“We got off to a bit of a rocky start,” Fareeha says, in an understatement that would make even her mother proud.  “And I’m sorry about that.  We need to trust each other, if we’re going to get through this.”  As if it were their first meeting, here and now, she offers her hand to shake, and the doctor takes it, cautiously, though her grip is strong as one might expect from someone whose work is with their hands.  “You can call me Fareeha,” says she, “No need for the Lieutenant Amari business.”

Somewhat skeptically, Doctor Ziegler tells her, “In that case, I suppose you can call me Angela.  And I think that trust is… difficult, in matters such as these.  Particularly now.  I can hardly fault you for assuming I would sabotage you, when I thought the same of you.”

 _I can hardly_ is not the same as _I do not,_ and Fareeha notes the difference, notes the way in which Angela carefully avoids saying she trusts Fareeha as well, or that she forgives Fareeha her suspicion.  Fair enough.  Trust is usually earned, and Fareeha will work hard to do so.

“So,” Fareeha says, deciding to let the matter slide, for now, as they have far more important things to focus on, “How do we find out what’s wrong with this thing?”

Doctor Ziegler—no, _Angela_ —picks up the device, frowns at it, turns it over and over in her hands, “I assume you’ve already tried charging it or replacing the battery?”

Well, no, _Fareeha_ has not, but she assumes her mother would have done so, before declaring it broken.  “That is usually the first thing to try,” says she, rather than lie outright.

“ _Usually_ ,” Angela agrees, “But not always.  It was worth asking.  But if it isn’t a power issue, then I’m going to have to open this up.”

As she speaks, she stands, moves from behind her desk and past Fareeha. 

“Where are you going?”  To say Fareeha is still a bit leery, after the previous _incident,_ would be an understatement, even if she has made the decision to try and trust Angela, and she hopes it does not show too much in her tone.  Curiosity, but not suspicion, is what she wants to convey.

“I can’t very well disassemble this _here_ ,” Angela says, as if it were obvious, and now that Fareeha thinks about it, it _is,_ for the room they are in is very obviously an office, complete with filing cabinets, and decidedly not made for any sort of non-paper work.  And, speaking of paper, Fareeha is rather surprised by the presence of a filing cabinet in the first place.  In the last few decades, paper has become nearly obsolete, and it is rare to see it in use by someone who is neither very old nor exceptionally paranoid.

Perhaps Angela is the latter—one advantage to paper, after all, is that it cannot be hacked, and Fareeha can understand why a medical doctor would not want their files in the hands of others.  She rather doubts that be hacked qualifies as a breach of doctor-patient confidentiality, but if Angela is as genuine as she seems to be, then she would be concerned about her patients’ wellbeing nonetheless.

And there is no telling who her patients _are._ For all that she has chastised Fareeha for mentioning Overwatch related activity publicly, in private she has not been so concerned about breaching the PETRAS Act.  It is entirely possible, Fareeha realizes, that she might still be treating some former Overwatch agents—or, at least, have kept their files—and they would, in fact, be in a good deal of danger, not to mention legal trouble, if their records were to be discovered in her possession.

In that case, the use of paper might make sense, after all.  But, then, Fareeha is only speculating, and it is entirely possible that Angela only likes the feeling of a pen in her hands, is nostalgic for a time before either of them was born.  She hardly seems the type to be given to such airs, but then, Fareeha hardly knows her, after all, knows only what she has been allowed to see, in such a strange situation as the two of them have found themselves in.

In any case, the next room Angela leads her to is decidedly more high tech—it is not state of the art, no, but it looks at least to belong to this century, a work bench and tools in the center, with a Valkyrie Suit mounted on the wall.  Other than that, there is nothing in the way of decoration, and Fareeah suspects that, despite the PETRAS Act, the suit is more than wall ornamentation.  Apparently, Angela is not one for decorating, for this is the third very, very bare room she has led Fareeha too.

“Not one for interior design, are you?” Fareeha asks, not having anything better to do as she watches the doctor take her place at the work bench, and begin to search for a means of opening the device without damaging it.

“Hmm?” Angela is clearly only half paying attention, blunt fingernails running along a seam that looks welded shut.

Fareeha gestures towards the room in general, “It’s pretty bare, in here.  And the rest of the place looks about the same.”

This does not seem to amuse Angela in the slightest, and she does not look up from her work when she says, tone very flat, “Most of my belongings are buried in the rubble of Headquarters.”

 _Oh_ , thinks Fareeha, _right._ It makes sense that they would have been—the officers’ quarters were, from what she remembers of her mother’s living arrangements, towards the center of the compound, providing their residents with ease of access to all of the facility.  That also happens to have been the epicenter of the explosion, give or take a few floors, which destroyed the building.  Likely, Angela has very little left, unless she kept a second set of quarters on a different base—something Fareeha doubts, given her research position.

“Sorry,” says she, and drops the conversation.  Clearly, this is not the sort of thing that Angela wants to discuss, and it certainly is not something _Fareeha_ wants to discuss either, not with someone she hardly knows, and not when she can barely parse her own feelings about Overwatch shutting down.

What place has her grief here?  Overwatch was not her legacy, not her home, her mother saw to that.  It was a dream she had, yes, something she worked her whole life towards, but not something she can claim in the same way that the people who worked for the organization might.  Never was it anything more than an ideal, to her, and the pain she feels is abstracted, is an echo of her grief over the loss of her mother, who is not so dead as she seemed, after all, and the loss of a dream, which although painful cannot possibly measure up with having lived within Overwatch, and losing a career, a home, and a community, all in one.

But what place has her grief anywhere?  It seems that no one else who was outside of Overwatch, like Fareeha was, understands what she lost, either.  They do not know what it was to give so much of herself, her life, her health, her relationship with her mother, in the pursuit of something now forever lost to her.  They cannot know what it meant to her, to lose the only thing she had left of Ana, filled with regret as she was about the way things had ended between them.  If she thought that her mother returning would resolve her feelings about this, she was wrong, because she still feels trapped, here, between two different worlds.

She is not of Overwatch, that she knows, has no right to grieve it like its erstwhile members do, but her connection is far more personal than that of the general public, and she does not know what to say, to Angela, does not know how to convey that she understands, on some level, her pain, without seeming to be coopting an experience that was never truly her own. 

To whom can she talk?  No one.

What she wants is to be able to move on from this, like she was trying to before, to throw herself into important work and ignore it, like she did when Ana died, to force herself to think about something, _anything_ else, but she cannot do so.  After all, she is needed here, needs to stop whatever is happening with Anubis, and that involves Overwatch intrinsically.  Even if her mother were not alive, even if it were not Angela to whom they have turned, it was Overwatch that captured Anubis, and every day she spends in its dim blue light is another spent in her mother’s shadow.

Where else can she go, thought?  This is where she wants to be, even if it is painful, is what she wants to be doing, saving people, serving the world, protecting them all from another Omnic Crisis.  Always, that has been her goal in life, to protect the innocent, and now, to restore peace as best she can to her own home country, to bring as much order as she can, to help the people living here.  But it is a difficult thing, to do that, and to be herself.  What she wants to accomplish is at odds with the environment she wants to be in, and she will have to make a choice, eventually, she knows.  Does she want to be free from Overwatch, from all the painful reminders it brings, or does she want to do what is right?

How is that a difficult decision?  Always, she has known that her own pain comes second. That is what it means to do the right thing, to be a hero.  One must know that one’s own needs are secondary to those of others, must accept that to do the right thing is never easy.  When she defied her mother to enlist, she did so, and she knows, deep down, that even if her mother disapproves because it is _Fareeha_ doing this, she believes the same thing of herself, chose to leave her husband and daughter behind for the sake of a better world, no matter how much it hurt her at the time.

Does Fareeha want to become her mother, who has lost everything for the sake of what is good, and right?  No.  But she does want to follow in her mother’s footsteps in some ways, wants to follow her example and become a hero—and, no matter their disagreements in the past few days, her mother _is_ a hero.  If that means unhappiness, so be it.

For now what it means is this: awkward silence while Angela works.  After her first faux pas, Fareeha has little interest in again attempting to engage in conversation, but she knows, too, that she cannot leave Angela alone with the device.  There is trust, and then there is foolhardiness, and to do so would be the latter.  So she will stand here, and she will say nothing, and she will hope that it does not take the doctor terribly long to determine what, specifically, is the matter.

She stands, and she waits, and she thinks that it is a good thing that she already does this sort of business for a living, standing around in one place waiting for something to happen, and is accustomed to the boredom and to the sore feet both.  It would not do to distract Angela by shuffling her feet too much, or poking around where she should not be, and she somehow doubts that taking out her phone will be well received, right now, given her previous experience being patted down.

Although, maybe Angela would not be so distracted after all, if Fareeha _were_ to do anything, given the way she is periodically fidgeting herself, rubbing at her temples or pinching the bridge of her nose.  Certainly, she is not terribly focused, so if Fareeha were to start poking around, or messing with something on her phone, she might not even notice.  Fareeha is just considering the merits of asking or simply pulling out her phone when, suddenly, Angela breaks the silence for her.

“If you’re just going to be standing there anyway,” says she, “Would you mind grabbing me a coffee?”

Fareeha would, in fact, mind, not because she has any particular objection to beverages, but rather because, “If it’s all the same to you, I don’t really want to leave the building while you’re working on this.”

A sigh from Angela, not terribly dramatic but clearly slightly annoyed.  “Well, I have a caffeine headache, since _someone_ wouldn’t let me finish my coffee earlier.  Either you go next door, or we both do.”

Fareeha crosses her arms, frowns, “Would _you_ leave someone alone with this, if you were me?”

“So much for trusting each other,” Angela mutters, standing, the device left sitting on the table, open, now, but in no way less mysterious to Fareeha.  “Alright, let’s go then.”

“You’re just going to leave it sitting there?”  This seems, somehow, like a worse idea than leaving Angela alone.

Now Angela, too, is crossing her arms.  “Do you want me to put it all back together, hand it back to you, go get coffee, and _then_ disassemble it all again?  That’s hardly efficient.”

Well, she may have a point, but she may, too, be bluffing, trying to get Fareeha out of her hair.  Granted, if it is a bluff, it is a good one, because now that Fareeha thinks about it, caffeine withdrawal explains all of the fidgeting Angela has been doing in the past hour and a half.  Rubbing at one’s temples to show that one has a headache is not exactly the hardest thing to fake, of course, but still, it seemed organic enough, at the time.

“Why don’t you go get the coffee,” Fareeha suggests, “And I stay here, with this?  That way we both get what we want.”

“It isn’t the most efficient way,” Angela says, and she may be right, in that she is not working while Fareeha grabs coffee, “But if it makes you feel better, fine.”

“It does,” Fareeha says, and that is that.  Angela leaves and Fareeha is let alone, in the room.

What she intends to do is just to stand there, to do nothing, to be in the exact same place when Angela returns from getting her coffee.  It would be best, surely, to do so, would reinforce Angela’s ability to trust her, insofar as either of them is _truly_ trusting of one another, and not simply acting the way that they are because they have no other, better option.  Yet Fareeha’s curiosity gets the better of her, after all, and she finds herself drawn to the Valkyrie Suit, mounted on the wall. 

She always hoped that she would be able to work alongside a medic with one, hoped it would be Angela, in fact, because that would mean she would be on one of the higher ranked strike teams within Overwatch, but she has never actually had the opportunity to see one in person, even after all this time.  They are not used in the Egyptian military, or in any military, per Angela’s instructions, and Helix does not have access to them either, given that they are a private security company, and not a relief-based organization.  A few suits, Fareeha knows, were donated to MSF, and to similar organizations, and she might, still, theoretically see one someday, but for now, all of them are grounded, another casualty of the end of Overwatch, and the PETRAS Act.  Technically, Angela has some legal control over them, if the lawsuits that have been in the news have any real ground, but they were also proprietary for Overwatch, for as long as she was under contract with them, and so they may never see action again, as _technically_ that makes them related to Overwatch activity.

It is a pity, Fareeha thinks.  The suits themselves are not at fault for what happens, and she rather doubts Angela was either, despite her candor in the investigation that followed the explosion, yet still, no one is able to use them to provide aid anymore, and people in need are suffering, for this, are left without access to Valkyrie-equipped medics, or nanites, or any of the other many things the team of researchers within Overwatch created, during its twenty-five year tenure, many of which improved lives.  Would Angela have testified differently, she wonders, if she knew what would happen to her work?  Would it have been enough for her to compromise her morals, long enough to say that—

“It won’t break,” but the silence does, as Angela’s voice cuts through it, and Fareeha has to fight the urge to jump back guiltily, “I built it for combat.  You can touch it, if you like.”

Fareeha recognizes an olive branch when she hears one, and takes it, reaches out and feels the suit, is surprised by the way the armor seems to give, beneath her hands.  It makes sense, she supposes, that it would not be a hard shell—that would be dangerous, in battle, would be a considerable shrapnel risk, if it were metal, built as it is to cup the breasts—but somehow it never _looked_ woven, when she saw it on the news.  How very little she actually knows.

“It’s beautiful,” says she, referring more to the craftsmanship than the design.  Although orange always has been her favorite color, she could do without the religious symbolism.  “The work that went into it…  I can’t imagine doing all this, and then having it taken away from me.”

“You have a flight suit with Helix, don’t you?”  Fareeha did not know that Angela knew about that, and her surprise must show on her face, because Angela follows with, “Don’t act so surprised, I looked you up.”

“Sort of,” says she, “I mean, I’ve had a hand with the Raptora, because it’s experimental, so I’ve provided feedback, and worked to implement solutions to problems I’ve come across, and install new features, but I can’t imagine it’s anything like building _this._   And in terms of propulsion—the rest of the world is ten, fifteen years behind where Overwatch was, still.  Maybe it’ll take us more to catch up.”

“It’s a tragedy,” Angela says, moving past her, to the workstation, “Everything that we lost.  First in the Crisis and now with the shutdown.  But that is what happens when one makes a deal with the devil.” 

When she sets down her coffee, it is perhaps with more force than necessary.

“Is that really how you think of them?  Of Overwatch?”  It seems terribly harsh, particularly for a woman who just yesterday was talking about how they were _betrayed_ , as if she were a part of them.

“The U.N.,” Angela corrects, takes a long sip from her coffee.  “They don’t give one shit about the people that are dying, who my work could help.  All they want is to save face.”

“I’m sorry,” Fareeha tells her, not knowing what else to say, “It must be difficult, to have that done.”

“More than you know,” Angela tells her, turning back to the device in front of her, and then, seeming to remember that they are trying to get along, adds, “But I imagine you feel much the same, or we wouldn’t be here.”

It surprises Fareeha, how quickly Angela’s tone can turn from hurt to such cheerfulness.  If she had not heard Angela, seconds before, it would seem like genuine optimism, and she wonders how often the doctor has _needed_ to do that, to stifle her own feelings and to sound that way.  It would be good, as a doctor, to be able to do so, would enable her to have the bedside manner Fareeha has heard so often praised, but it is worrying, too.  One wants their combat medic to be honest with them.  How many men were told, sunnily, that everything was okay, that they were going to be fine, they were in good hands now, only for that to be a lie, as they lay dying?

Is that a mercy?  Or does it rob the dying of their right to find peace with their deaths, to say one last goodbye to the world?

In truth, Fareeha does not want to know, gives a cursory agreement and lets the conversation lull again, for the time being, tries not to think about the morality of being a combat medic, whether or not she would like to know that she is dying.  Did her mother know, when she was shot, what would happen?  It must have been a near thing.  What did she think, then?

Best to focus on other things.  Later, she can ask her mother what the last name on her lips was to be, if she died.  Later, she can wonder what she would want, in that situation.  Hopefully, it will not be relevant anytime soon. 

Instead, she takes out her phone, does her best to read up on the lawsuit related to the Valkyrie technology and Angela’s nanobiotics, thinks that it would probably be for the best if _she_ did her background research, too.  Knowing Angela’s reputation as a public figure is not enough, clearly.  If she can switch tone so easily, and so fluidly, perhaps her earnestness is just an act, too, and Fareeha has been taken for a fool again.  Once again, her resolve to trust is set aside, and she begins to wonder if she can trust that—

“ _Fareeha_ ,” Angela’s voice cuts through the silence, abruptly, tears her from the motion she was skimming.  “Did you drop this, by any chance?  Perhaps from a considerable height?”

“Um,” Fareeha asks, “How high is considerable?”

“20 meters or so, I’d say.”

20 meters?  The exact height of the ceiling of the Temple of Anubis’ main chamber, from which her mother fell naught but four nights before?

Fuck.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> had an absolutely draining week (so much so that i went out and got a new job LMFAO), have nothing really to say here. hope ur day is good
> 
> lmk ur thoughts!


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay ive officially had the week from hell which included forcing someone to get sober, starting a new job, arranging to put down my dog, being a pawn in my parents divorce (even tho im 22), and spending time in the er. so that was fun! but anyway all this is to say i may be going on a brief hiatus after chapter 11 (aka the end of part one) since my life is uhhh a mess

Somehow, it seems as if every problem in Fareeha’s life can be traced back to a single source: her mother.  Despite how that sounds, she does not think her mother was a bad mother, although certainly there was room for improvement, when it came to the decisions Ana made in raising her, but, rather, the problem is more that Ana would have been an excellent mother to _someone else._ Fareeha can recognize that, can know that despite the fact that here mother hurt her, time and again, she was always well-intentioned, and with another child, things would have gone fine, just as with a slightly different mother, Fareeha, too, would have been happier.  But knowing such does not make it any easier to accept that if Fareeha had not been the sort of person who wanted to enlist, for example, her mother would never have hurt her as she did, never have pushed her away, spent several long years not talking to her at all, and knowing that does not mean that Fareeha does not hurt for it.

And some of the things about her mother which have hurt Fareeha would have hurt her no matter whom she was, such as her mother ‘dying.’  Would it have hurt less were they talking at the time of her death?  Of course.  But it would still have hurt, nonetheless, and that is solely Ana’s fault.

More complicated are issues in which her mother is at fault for something, but her own reaction unequivocally makes things worse, such as in this case, the matter of Fareeha’s ability to trust.  Certainly, it Ana’s fault for pretending to die, and it is both of their fault for how things between them changed, when she was in her late teens, each of them having said and done things they now regret, and it is natural that such things would affect how trusting Fareeha is capable of being, when it comes to others, how much she believes their motives and their claims, how willing she is to handle confrontational people, but it is Fareeha’s fault, too, for letting things get to her so, for not taking care to remind herself that most people are _not_ Ana, and that if anyone in her life is guilty of deceit, it is her mother, not some stranger.

So quick was she to blame Angela for the broken device, so quick was she to think it sabotage, and all along it was only a simple mistake, only the result of her mother having fallen, and not taken care to protect the device as she did so.  Fareeha hates that—not the falling, but the way in which her trust in other people has been eroded, because of her mother’s death and because of the situations her mother has put her in, since.  Fareeha is not one for subterfuge, or one to distrust.  She is better than this, she is.

But around her mother, she is not.  Something about Ana brings out the worst in her, makes her prone to hasty judgements that she would normally criticize others for, makes her the sort who says things, does things that she would not accept in another person.  Fareeha hates that, wishes she could hate her mother for it, but knows that really, it is her own fault.

And that makes her angrier, at both her mother and herself.

Around anyone else, Fareeha is not at all an angry person.  It is her mother bringing out the worst in her yet again.  But what can be done?  Ultimately, Fareeha’s emotions, how she responds to her mother, that is no one’s fault but her own, and she knows that, can recognize it even as she finds such incredibly unpleasant.  She needs to do better, be better.

Better would be apologizing to Angela, for her mistake.  Better would be admitting that she judged the doctor unfairly, jumped to conclusions and assigned blame to quickly, was ready, _too_ ready, to punish her for something she never actually did.  Better would be to not do so again.

Also better would be this: for her mother to have thought to mention that she dropped the device, when she entered the Temple, so that Fareeha might have even _considered_ the possibility that it had broken upon falling, and better would have been her mother not also being so quick to assign blame elsewhere, but Fareeha cannot control this.

This, she can control: what she says next.

“I’m sorry,” says she.  “I shouldn’t have accused you.”

“Yes,” Angela agrees, “But I think we’ve established that neither of us has perhaps been as charitable in our assumptions as we ought to be.”

“That may be so, but I still should’ve known better,” both better than to accuse, and better about wat happened to the device before she did so.

“Now you do,” Angela says, and something in her tone says that she certainly has not _forgiven_ Fareeha the accusation, even if she is trying her best to be polite and to accept the apology, if only for the sake of making things less awkward between them in the future.  Fareeha understands, for she has accepted many a similar apology from her mother.

But, then, that again puts her in the position of being like Ana, whom, increasingly, Fareeha finds herself not admiring so much after all.  When it comes to her mother’s legacy, her achievements, her abilities, yes, Fareeha thinks she could stand to perhaps be more like Ana, but when it comes to how her mother handles conflict, how she relates to others?  Emulating Ana is not wise.  Fareeha would far rather take after her father, in such a case.  She does not want Angela to apologize only because she has given an apology, too little and too late, and it is easier to accept such than to reject it and to risk escalating the encounter, but she also does not know how else to handle the situation. At least she _has_ apologized, and meant it, in a way her mother rarely has.

It is not enough, however.  Fareeha wants to be a better person than being near her mother is making her, because who she is is ultimately not Ana’s responsibility, but her own.  If Fareeha wants to be more trusting, less angry, more open to accepting the blame for her own actions, her own choices, then it falls to her to do so.  Her mother may bring out the worst in her, but Fareeha can bring out her own best.

“Yes,” she agrees, “Now I do,” and means not only this instance, but in her choices going forwards.  But that is enough talk of that, for clearly Angela does not want to deal with her apologies, not now and maybe mot ever.  “What’d I break?”

Never mind that _she_ did not, in fact, break it, but if she were Angela, and believed that she were speaking to the person responsible for breaking the device in question, she would very much want to hear that sort of accountability in their phrasing. 

“Unfortunately, it looks like the battery,” and that sounds simple enough, to Fareeha’s ears, but the way Angela is frowning, very seriously, makes her think that perhaps it is going to be more complicated than it seems.

“I take it from your tone that I can’t get a replacement at the store?”  That would be too easy, given how the rest of Fareeha’s week has gone.

“Unfortunately, no,” Angela tells her, “It’s the same model used to power pre-Crisis omnics.  Highly illegal.”  She need not have said the second part, for Fareeha knows that—everyone does.  After the Crisis, omnic existence was criminalized in many countries, and the creation of new omnics, too, highly discouraged.  Anything that would ease in their construction is very much off-limits, and newer omnics operate differently than their more efficient predecessors.  Were it not for her mother’s crash landing, this battery would have powered itself forever.

Just barely, Fareeha resist the urge to groan in frustration, or to make some other external indication of her negative mood.  It would do no good, however.  Both of them are frustrated enough already.  Best to restrain herself, and to simply stay professional.  “I don’t suppose you have any idea where we could find a replacement.”

“I do, actually,” Angela surprises her by saying, “But you’re not going to like it.”

Well, Fareeha has yet to like a single thing that has happened today, so why should this be any different.  “Shoot,” says she.

A blank look from the doctor.

“Uh, tell me, I mean.”

“There should be a few in all the old Overwatch bases,” Angela tells, her, “Either with their servers, powering Athena, or in the medical bay powering essential to life technology.”

Not another break in. “Shit,” Fareeha says, “That’ll be high security.”   And, worse, high security in an environment she herself is very unfamiliar with.

“I’m afraid I can’t help you there,” Angela says, “I can’t fabricate an excuse to go to the Alexandria base—I was never stationed there, and given the current legal situation, I don’t think the UN is terribly happy with me.”  Of course they would not be, she is _suing_ them.  “If we had more time, I’d say give me two weeks, and I could get one from Torbjörn Lindholm, but as it stands…”

“I’m just gonna have to break into somewhere else,” Fareeha says, rather grimly.  “I’m becoming quite the career criminal, I think.”

“Better you than me,” Angela is amused by that, at least, “I don’t think I was ever on a stealth mission that _didn’t_ fail.”  Given the very brightly glowing Valkyrie wings, Fareeha is not terribly surprised by this information.

“It’s a wonder they kept Blackwatch under wraps for so long then,” Fareeha says, and really, now that she thinks about it, it really _is_ quite the miracle.  None of the Overwatch agents she has ever met fit the description of ‘stealthy’ or ‘subtle.’

At this, Angela’s nose wrinkles, as if her thoughts are particularly distasteful.  “Oh, I wasn’t _their_ doctor.  They didn’t believe in licensed medical practitioners.”

“Didn’t _believe_ in?”

“I shouldn’t speak ill of the dead,” Angela says, “But I don’t know what Gabriel was thinking, when he made some of his hires.”

Given the way things ended with Overwatch, Fareeha is inclined to believe that the answer is that he was _not_ thinking, and that was the problem, but she does not say this, merely hums in agreement, and then says, diplomatically as possible, “They can’t all be you.”  After all, it is distinctly possible that the other doctor was merely _passable_ and Angela is judging them harshly because they did not measure up to her own accomplishments, which is a nearly impossible standard. 

“No,” Angela agrees, “But they might’ve at least hired an M.D.  Combat medicine certifications are all well and good, but nothing substitutes for actually having attended medical school.”

Well, Fareeha does not disagree with that.  She has known enough combat medics in her days to know that she would much rather be in the hands of someone whose training consisted of several years in school, and then a residency, and not a two-month crash course and ‘field experience.’

“You’re probably right about that,” Fareeha says, trying not to grimace at the thought of some of the treatment she received before arriving to an actual field hospital, and the surgeons therein.   “But it’s beside the point, isn’t it?”

“Ah,” Angela says, “Yes.  I imagine you’ll want to know what it is you’re looking for?”

“That _might_ be helpful.”  Reaching into computers and pulling out random parts does not seem likely to net a positive result, and may, in fact, end in electrocution, something Fareeha would very much like to avoid if at all possible.

With one hand, Angela motions her to come closer, and she does so, leans over where the doctor is seated at the desk to look down at the device, pulled apart beneath it.  “Well,” says she, examining the many, many pieces it is in, “You certainly took this apart efficiently.”

“I am a surgeon,” Angela reminds her, some humor in her voice, and Fareeha supposes that yes, that would lend itself to being easily able to pick other things apart, and with a good deal of delicacy, too.  “One would hope that I’d be good with my hands.”

“Right,” Fareeha agrees, and pointedly does not think about the number of times she herself has used the same phrase as an innuendo.  “But how are you going to put it back together?”

“The same way I took it apart?”

“You’re going to remember all that?” Fareeha knows that Angela is smart, or, at least, has heard she is, from her mother and from so many other people over the years who sang her praises after her big breakthrough in nanobiotic medicine, but even smart people make mistakes, and she knows for a fact this is not Angela’s area of expertise.  “I know you’re supposed to be some sort of genius, but…”

Angela’s head tilts back slightly as she laughs, bumping into Fareeha, still standing behind her, “I’m apparently smarter than _you_ think I am.  I’ve been recording the whole process.”  To emphasize, she taps the magnifying glass she has been looking through, and Fareeha sees, then, the small camera mounted in the metal surrounding the lens.

Good, Fareeha thinks.  It is, at least, one less thing to worry about.

“I’ll just stop asking questions then,” says she, feeling a bit foolish for having assumed that Angela went into this with as little a plan as she herself has.

“No,” Angela’s voice is kinder, now, “No, it was a good question. It might’ve been more useful _before_ I got started, but the concern itself was a valid one.”

“Why _do_ you have that set-up, anyway?  I can’t imagine you do stuff like this often.”  Given that all of her research is currently tied up in lengthy court proceedings, Fareeha does not see why Angela would have occasion to use such a thing, these days.

This brings a note of hardness back to Angela’s voice, “When I worked with Overwatch, a good number of my creations were… modified without my consent, shall we say?  And while some of them were for the greater good, certainly, others I highly disapprove of.  I’m reverse-engineering as much as I can in order to find a way to neutralize the nanites used in those weapons.  As a matter of principle.” 

Fareeha is under the distinct impression, given Angela’s tone and phrasing, that this is not, in fact, a matter of principle, but is something far more personal.  However, it is not her place to press further, and it brings up another, better question besides.

Shifting a half-step back before asking what she knows to be a somewhat risky question, she asks, “Items like a sleep dart?”

Sure enough, Angela whirls around to face her, eyes sharp and voice sharper, “And _what_ do you know about that?”

“Um,” says Fareeha, “Nothing, really, I just—”

“It had better be nothing.  Because if I found out that _you’re_ the one who stole it from the old base, then I’ll—”

“I didn’t!” Fareeha raises her hands placatingly, “I swear I didn’t.  I just saw it mentioned in an old memo of Mum’s when I was sorting through her things.”

Angela’s posture does not relax, but her tone is slightly milder as she says, “For your sake, I hope that’s true.  But if so—why mention it?”

Time for another half-truth.  “I just wondered how it worked, honestly.  I don’t know much about anesthesia, but it’s really delicate, so if this sleep dart works on _everyone_ then it has to somehow account for the target’s weight and tolerances to be non-lethal, right?  But it’s a _dart_ , so I don’t see how you’d—”

Apparently convinced that Fareeha is being genuine, Angela interrupts her, “It works by the same mechanism as nanite deployment with my staff—which is to say, I can’t tell you until litigation is over.  If the world hasn’t ended before then, give me a call, and I’ll explain it.”

“Oh,” says Fareeha, simultaneously trying not to look too relieved that Angela believed her or too disappointed by the fact that she will not be getting her answer today, after all, “Okay.  You’re awfully confident about winning, though.”

“If I don’t win,” Angela tells her, “There’s going to be a mysterious breach in Overwatch’s security system, and old research—mine specifically—will somehow find it’s way into the public's hands.  Naturally, it’ll happen while I’m elbow deep in some unfortunate soul’s intestines, so it would be absurd to suggest I was at fault, particularly when, for the duration of the lawsuit, I am arguing for the right to my _proprietary_ information.”

“And you think they’ll buy that?”

“Of course not,” Angela tells her, “But it won’t matter, at that point.  Even if they can prove I was responsible for leaking the information, everyone in the world will be able to build a Valkyrie Suit of their own, and my work will be done.”

“I don’t know, sounds like a lot more reverse-engineering in your future.”  Fareeha would like to think of herself as a basically optimistic person, but she does not believe for a minute that Angela’s work will be used only by altruists.

“That’s why it’s my fallback plan,” Angela tells her, “And this hypothetical hacker would only be releasing the first iteration of the nanites, back when they all had a kill switch.”  A pause, “But you’re right, it’s imperfect.  And I _don’t_ want my work being modified and used for ill but—I don’t have a choice, do I?  Someone stole the sleep dart prototype already, and the grenades and the rifle made to weaponize my nanites.  My work is already doing harm, somewhere.  I may as well ensure that some good, at least, is done too.”

“That’s a shitty choice,” is all Fareeha can think to say.

“Most choices are.”

That, Fareeha can certainly agree with, after the week she has had.  Either she must do bad, or she most do worse, and there is no moral high ground to be found, in anything.  “Speaking of the terrible options we’ve had this week, show me this battery I’m supposed to steal?”

“Ah,” says Angela, “Right,” and from there, it is strictly business.

The rest of Fareeha’s morning is quite uneventful.  Angela works to disassemble most of the rest of the device, trying to find any other broken parts, and then to put the thing back together, minus the battery, and they talk during most of that span.  Conversation grows less awkward, gradually, both of them more mindful of what seems to be off-limits, although that is somewhat of a difficult prospect when Overwatch, which has brought them together and is central to their activities, is something that both of them find painful to discuss, and is _also_ the only thing they can identify as having in common.

Still, now that Angela seems to have decided that she likes Fareeha, or is going to try to be polite to her, she is far easier to talk to than Ana.  With Ana, Fareeha knows where the boundaries lie, it is true, shares a history and a familiarity, but Angela and she try to _avoid_ provoking one another, and lacking the sort of history that Ana and Fareeha have, one that is painful, and still all too raw, given that they never even tried to reach a resolution, they are much more easily able to avoid drawing strong emotions from one another.

To say that Fareeha is not exactly looking forwards to returning to her condo, and her waiting mother, would be an understatement and oversimplification both.  Fareeha dreads talking to her mother, it is true, does not know how the accusation of _You broke it, and you should’ve realized before accusing Angela,_ is going to go, other than poorly, no matter how she phrases things, and fears, too, the way she responds to her mother, the easy way in which she falls back into bad habits, when Ana is around.  She will try her best to keep to this morning’s resolutions both to trust more and to try and control how she reacts to her mother, even if she cannot control what Ana does, and she hopes that will help, but she knows it will not be easy.  Too many years spent on the defensive near Ana have made it a habit, to respond poorly to things. 

But it is an oversimplification as well, because Fareeha _is_ looking forward to being near her mother, in theory, if not in practice, enjoys being around her, and appreciates whatever higher power there may be giving her this second chance with her mother, this hope of reconciliation, this idea that they might, maybe, be able to be reconciled, one day, or reach an understanding, at the very least.  Many people do not get that, and a younger Fareeha thought that she did not want it, but she does, she _does_ , wants nothing more than for her mother to say that she is proud of the woman Fareeha has become, the way that she conducts herself, the career she has had and her dedication to such.

Of course, she has to earn that pride, and she does not feel she really has—not in the last week, at least.  Her work has been exemplary, but with this Anubis business she has been always on the back foot, and that makes it harder to show her mother the skills she has developed, how she is capable of leading, and is a good, dedicated soldier.  Not to mention that her mood has been poor, and it has changed how she si responding to everything, makes her seem every inch the surly teenager she left behind when she left her mother.  How to show Ana that that version of her is not the real one, and that the new Fareeha, years away from the young woman she once was, has grown into a capable adult, one with many of the same qualities that her mother most admired in her father?

There are things she learned from him that she could not have learned from Ana, and perhaps that has been the problem she is having, in the last week, being so near to her mother.  Always, she loses sight of herself around her mother, remembers only when she wanted to be _just like_ her, and to lose her own identity in that.  But she is not her mother, and her strengths are not her mother’s, and if she tries to measure herself only by the standard of being like Ana, she will always lose.  But she is more than that, she knows, always has been.  Unlike her mother, she can be flexible, knows that her way is not always best, and unlike her mother, she does not need to maintain a mask around those who care for her, is able to be vulnerable, to be open, to admit when she has made a mistake.  These are not weaknesses, they are strengths of her own, ones she has and Ana lacks, ones she has been pushing to the side for she fears her mother would disdain them.

But there is nothing to be disappointed in.  Fareeha is who she is, and she herself is proud of the woman she has become, most days.  If she just behaves more herself, regardless of whether or not her mother will approve, and if she stays calm, thinks things through, does not let her mother’s impulsiveness influence her, and make her hasty where normally she would not be, gives herself time to consider things, and to calm down before saying things or making choices, then she is someone with positive qualities that her mother has not, someone who is worthy of praise, and pride.  Maybe then, her mother will see the same.

How can she expect Ana to be proud of her as she has been behaving, this past week, more a pale imitation of her mother and less an authentic version of herself?  Of course Ana would find that lacking—she will never _be_ Ana, will always fail to measure up, in that regard.  But if she is herself?  That is someone in whom her mother can see strengths she herself lacks, and find something worthy of admiration, or at the very least, respect.  If only Fareeha behaves with respect to herself.

All of this is easy to resolve, of course, on her walk back to her condo.  Her mother is not here, with her now, standing in the sun, feeling the warmth of it in her skin and the heat of it in her lungs, is stuck alone in the shadows like the ghost she is.  Light for the living, and darkness for the dead.  Part of Fareeha wonders, a part of her that has yet to fully accept that her mother is alive, again, is here with her now, if her mother would disappear, in the sun, if she would continue to exist in the light of day.  It is nonsense, of course, but she still seems the sort of specter that comes in dreams, that is there to tempt you on summer nights with a promise that if one only wanders from the safety of one’s shelter, that there is something better out there, something greater.

Where is she leading Fareeha to?

But, then, old tales of demons that lured women away from camps a night never were real.  Oases _are_ , however, a danger that comes in daylight, when a false belief that safety is ahead leads one astray, when something so very perfect looking, like a haven, turns out to be nothing more than an illusion.  Maybe it is not her mother she should be worried about, after all.

Following their conversation, and resolution to herself to not let paranoia consume her, isolate her, ruin her, Fareeha is _going_ to trust Angela, but she cannot ignore the parallels here.  Both of their meetings, Fareeha has let feeling well, feeling positive, feeling certain that things are going to end as they should, and progress has been made, but last night, when she reached her destination, she found that all that was only an illusion.  Will the same happen this time?

She hopes not.

She just needs to focus on herself, on what she can do, on what she believes is right.  If she does that, then no one, not her mother, not Angela, not anyone, can lead her astray.  If she but sticks to her principles, then no matter if she fails, or she succeeds, she can know, at least, that she has done her best, and been a good person as she does so.  What more can she expect of herself?  What more can anyone?

She will let herself be blinded neither by sunlight nor darkness, and will simply stick to her own path.  In theory, that is easy enough to do.

In practice, she finds she cannot even stick to the sidewalk on her way home, as she intends to, having to take care to walk around people clustered seemingly in front of every storefront, gossiping about something or another.  Big news is afoot—but what?

A moment of panic passes through her—have she and her mother been found out, somehow?  Is this news related to the break in at the Temple of Anubis last night?  Or, worse, has one of the other god Programs been having the same troubles as Anubis and escaped containment?  So caught up has she been in her own problems that she has forgotten the rest of the world, and the ways in which this impacts them.  Never has she been able to set aside that they might all die, but that they have an awareness of their own?  That they might realize what it is that is happening?  That the problem might not be only isolated to here?  Yes, she has had tunnel vision.

Discretely as she can, she ducks into a side street, and then to an alley behind the buildings.  Here, no one will recognize her, if this is, indeed, some way tied to her recent activities, and she will not be standing in the way of anyone else, either.

Quickly as she ever has in her life, she unlocks her phone, looks at the news and sees—

—Something relieving, not at all tied to her in any way shape or form, and she wants to breathe a sigh of relief, to let out the kind of half-laugh that signals that oh, she’s okay, for now, is not going to be caught, or killed, and there is not another Omnic Crisis quite yet.  But then reality hits and she comes crashing down, realizes that it is—

—Something terrible.  No, it is not another Crisis, exactly, is remnants of the old one, but the Gwishin have increased in number off the coast of South Korea, have become far more of a threat in recent months, and now, in the last few hours, have all but destroyed Seoul.  As a soldier, Fareeha knows what it is to see suffering, and having grown up during the Crisis she saw more than enough footage on the holos of the destruction, the pain that it brought.  One would think that she would be used to seeing such things by now, would be numb to it, and she wishes she were, sometimes, but instead, she has to fight to suppress the sob that wants to tear itself from her throat.

How many lives?  How many homes destroyed, and families torn apart?  Since Overwatch was shut down, the situation, once under control, or as close to it as possible, has been growing steadily worse, and now?  Now, with no one to defend them, the people of South Korea have their homes destroyed while the rest of the world does nothing but sit back and watch. 

Fareeha hates that, the helplessness of the situation, the fact that there is nothing she can do, a single woman who does not even own the armor in which she fights, hates that even if she tries to convince her superiors at Helix, they will do nothing, not if they are not paid.  Without Overwatch, South Korea is on their own, and Fareeha can do nothing about that save hope that they find a solution to their problem soon, while there is still a building left standing left for them to save.

But she is grateful, too, in a sick way, grateful that it is not her, not her home or her recent escapades in the news, is something happening on the other side of the world, where Fareeha has never been, and knows no one.  Relief is a terrible thing to feel, at times like this, particularly as she knows it _could_ be her home, without a moment’s notice.

But it will not be.  That is what she is doing right here, right now, defending her homeland—and, less directly, the rest of the world—from another Crisis. 

To save everyone would be impossible, would be a fantasy.  Even Overwatch could do no such thing, could not even come close, in the end.  But to save as many people as possible?  That is a reasonable goal, one that Fareeha will work towards, must.

Doing so begins with this: getting home to her mother, and telling her what it is she needs to do next.  Fareeha is not turning her backs on the people of Seoul, she doing what she can for the entire world, by keeping the Anubis God Program contained.  If it escaped, it would hurt everyone.  She lacks the necessary expertise and equipment to make a more meaningful impact on South Korea directly, so she will do what she can to help the whole world from her home.  This she tells herself.

It feels like a cop-out. 

There is no cloud to pass over the sun, casting her in shadow, but somehow the brightness of the day and of the world surrounding her is greatly dimmed, now.  Today is not a good one, after all.  Even if her on goals are met, even if things go according to plan, she must live with the knowledge that there is so much suffering in the world, and she can combat only a little of it.

Such is the nature of life, she knows.  No one person can save everyone, nor should they try to.  There is a time and a place for intervention, are situations wherein well-meaning foreigners ought not to intervene, would be more a hindrance than a help.  This is likely such a one.  But she wants to, she _wants_ to.

How did it not drive her mother mad, in Overwatch?  How did she resist the urge to scream, to shout, to accuse and to rail against the unfairness of it all?  She knows Overwatch could not always choose when and where they intervened, yet the whole world wanted them to be there, when they were needed.  How hard must it have been, to sit back, and to watch as cities were destroyed, and the citizens begged for one’s help, and to know that one could not intervene; how difficult, to follow orders in times like that, to obey when the UN said that non one must do anything, that they had not the time, the resources, to save people who desperately needed and wanted their help, their support.

Perhaps it explains a bit of her mother’s coldness, now.  Other problems must seem so small, once one has hardened their heart to the suffering of millions, been made to.

But this is conjecture only.  Fareeha does not know how her mother felt about her work, about anything, for Ana has always taken great pains to hide how such things impact her, to never show a negative feeling in front of anyone, save perhaps for the occasional anger Fareeha has been able to draw out of her.  She is carefully neutral, for the public, never says a negative word about what it is, to do her work, even if she rarely says positive ones, either.

It made it easier, to fight her and to defy her, that closed off nature of her mother’s, made it far simpler to imagine that she truly was unaffected, was doing this because she was being cruel to Fareeha, because she thought her weak and incapable, and not because she herself had been so hurt by her work that she could not imagine watching her daughter follow in her footsteps.  Realizing this is not cathartic.

Yet Fareeha, too, was right in her way: if she had never served, had not been the sort to dedicate her life to saving others, she would not know, now, as she does, what it is to be in this position, would still not understand why it is her mother did what she did, and acted the way that she acted.  She would not know what it is to feel this sort of pain, this powerlessness, this sudden rush of realization that no matter how hard one tires, one can never, ever, help everyone, and there will always be human suffering, always be injustice, and one has simply to content oneself with doing the best one can, such as it is.

That contentment seems impossible.

Does her mother feel the same?

She is nearly home, now, and she can ask, if she wants to, can bring this up, can see if, by so doing, she finds some sort of resolution, after so many years spent at odds with her mother.  She can talk about this and maybe, _maybe_ reach an understanding, maybe start to make peace with her past, and heal from it, find herself finally able to move forwards and to redefine herself outside of the legacy of pain her mother has left to her.  She can use it as an olive branch, a way of saying _I understand why you did what you did, even if I don’t agree with it_ , and built up from there.

She _can_ , but she will not.

After all, if she is going to save the world, she cannot prioritize such things, needs instead to focus on building a plan, on arranging for the next break-in, to steal a battery and power the device, to determine what is wrong with the Anubis Containment, and from there to seal it, again.  Maybe after all of that is over, done with, and resolved, Fareeha will have a chance to reconcile with her mother, if another global emergency does not come up first.

And maybe she will not. 

If she is going to save the world, she needs to find peace with that much, at least.  Her feelings are less important than everyone else’s lives, their futures.  Civilians must be her priority.

That, she learned from her mother.

If ever they do have a peaceful moment, if the world conspires with them to settle down, then and only then will Fareeha broach the subject.  She does not want to die regretting never discussing this with her mother, it is true, but she does not want the rest of the world to suffer because she put something like this first, and she does not imagine her mother does also.

This is who they are, this is who they were born to be.  Protecting other people is the Amari legacy, is what their family has always done, will always do, and that comes at a cost.  Even if they never discuss the matter, that her mother will understand, on some level.  Even if they never make amends, Ana will see through Fareeha’s actions what it is she is trying to do, will know, and will understand.

In that, if in nothing else, Fareeha has faith. 

If Fareeha can make her mother see her as an equal, if her work can speak for itself, show that she is doing what their family has always done, is every inch as dedicated as Ana herself was, then her mother will understand, without them ever having a conversation, that Fareeha _knows_ , now, the price she paid, and must know, too, why she acted.  Yes, Fareeha longs for something more, for some storybook-perfect resolution, to talk things out and to reach an understanding that way, but that is not who she is, is not who her mother is.  They are women of action, and what they do will always matter more than what they say.  So she will do her best to show her mother that all is, if not forgiven, understood, and that she is doing her best to respect her mother’s legacy, if not her wishes.

For now, it will have to be enough.  They have more important matters to attend to.

Matters such as breaking into yet _another_ highly secure facility, something that Fareeha is not at all look forwards to, after the incident the night previous.  Yes, as a person who spends much of her time guarding such places, she has an advantage that most do not in finding weaknesses in their defenses and gaining access to places she should not be able to, but that does not mean that she is used to doing so, or fond of it.  Planning another heist hardly appeals to her; if anything, it only makes her very anxious.

Not to mention that she is going to have to patch all the holes in the Temple’s security that she has discovered, sooner or later, and is going to have to find an excuse to give to Captain Khalil as to why, exactly, she has given so much thought to this matter.  Yet another task to add to her ever growing to do list, and she _will_ do it—just as soon as she finds her mother.

Unlike the day previous, Ana is not waiting for her in the living area when she returns, and she is thankfully not in the kitchen either.  For a moment, Fareeha feels that now familiar flash of panic, that her mother has disappeared on her again, that she is all alone in this after all, but then she hears from the bathroom the faint sound of running water and realizes that no, Ana is only taking a shower.

Well, good.  Too much time on the run and not enough on personal hygiene would make one start to smell.  The world cannot wait for Fareeha and Ana to resolve their issues, for that would take far too long, but it _can_ wait for the two of them to attend to their health.

So Fareeha waits, patiently, tries to slump in her chair in a way that is not natural to her anymore, after too much time in the military being told to have proper posture, but which her mother will know is not threatening, not accusatory, will lend itself to a more relaxed conversation.  That, she imagines, will be necessary when she tells Ana that it was _her_ fault that the device was broken, after all, and not Angela’s, and Fareeha was right, again, not to kidnap the doctor, because the woman is, if not innocent, at least not guilty of sabotaging either of them, thus far.

Probably.

There is always the chance that she broke the battery before showing it to Fareeha, but that seems very, very unlikely, given how deep within the device it was located, how much she had to remove in order to identify the problem.  Fareeha is already preparing to defend her, when the time comes, because she knows already that Ana will accuse her of something, somehow, will think that she broke the device, somehow, because for whatever reason, despite Angela’s fondness for Ana, her mother seems to dislike the doctor very much.

Although, now that Fareeha thinks about it, Angela, despite liking Ana, accused her of having been involved in the betrayal and fall of Overwatch, so perhaps it is simply the effect of that incident on the both of them, leaving them unable to feel that they can trust anyone.  That scares Fareeha, to think they could have both been so changed by such an event, because she has felt herself tempted to give into that fear, that paranoia in the past few days, and she wonders, will it ever get any better?  Is she fighting a losing battle in trying to resist that?  Will she, inevitably, be robbed of her ability to fully connect with others, drowning in secrets and a fear of betrayal, until there is none of the affable, trusting, warm and open Fareeha left?

She hopes not.

If she must, she will pay that price, but she really would much rather stay the sort of woman that she is now, if she has any choice in the matter.

Another thing she would choose, had she any say, would be for her mother to shower _faster._ Washing long hair takes a long time, yes, Fareeha knows, but not this long, surely.  Maybe she is just impatient, but it seems as if her mother has been in the shower forever, and Fareeha is seriously considering knocking on the door and asking if everything is okay when, at last, the door opens, and her mother emerges surrounded by quite the cloud of steam.

“Mum!” she scolds without thinking, “Turn the fan on!  That’s bad for the paint.”

“I didn’t expect you back so early,” her mother says, not at all acknowledging the damage she may have done to what is now _Fareeha’s_ bathroom.

“And I didn’t expect—is that my robe?”  Like most people, she does not want her mother to be wearing her clothes, particularly when she is presumably not wearing any undergarments along with said clothing.  “ _Mum_.”

Her mother seems amused by this, “Would you prefer I had walked out naked, dear?”

“Definitely not,” says she, defeated.

“I thought so,” her mother sounds a touch smug, and seems entirely too dignified for someone wearing only a bathrobe meant to fit a person 20cm taller than themself.  “Now, unless you’ve discovered something that’s an emergency, I’m going to go put clothes on.”

The fact that her mother could have brought her clothes into the bathroom with her and changed there is not lost on Fareeha, but she decides it is not worth pointing out, or thinking about, any longer.  There are issues which are more pressing, such as wondering how offended her mother would be if Fareeha went to wash the robe immediately.

Hopefully not too much so, because it is what Fareeha intends to do, along with perhaps purchasing a second bathrobe when she has the time.

Fortunately, her mother dresses quickly, likely a legacy of her considerable time in the military, and Fareeha does not have to contemplate the matter for too long, is able to again focus on the task at hand, and worry about things of far greater, potentially world-ending, importance.

“I take it,” Ana says, sitting down across from Fareeha, at the far end of the table, “Given by how quickly you’ve returned, that Ziegler was cooperative, this time?”

“She was cooperative both times,” Fareeha corrects, “But yes, I know what our next steps are.”

Mothers are very uniquely able to sound disappointed in one’s judgement, and Ana is no exception, leverages that ability now, “I’d hardly call sabotaging us cooperating, Fareeha.”

Here comes the tricky part of this conversation.  “Neither would I.  But Angela _didn’t_ sabotage us, Mum.”

“No?  The device broke itself, then?”  Of the two of them, one would expect that Fareeha, being younger, would be the sarcastic one, but such is not the case, has never been.

“No, Mum, _you_ broke it.”  She sounds more accusing than she intended, and has the sinking feeling that this is going to go over more like she expected, and less like she hoped.

Now the look on her mother’s face is incredulous, “Ziegler told you that, and you _believed_ her?  After she tried to get us caught?  You can’t expect me to—”

This, Fareeha cuts off at the pass, because it is not at all productive.  “No, Mum, she didn’t say _you_ broke it.  In fact, she thinks I did.  And I let her continue to believe that, for the record.”  

“She told you _you_ broke it, and knowing that you didn’t do so, you _still_ believe her explanation?  Fareeha…”

Perhaps Fareeha should have started with this clarification: “Once she opened it up, she took one look at it and asked if I’d dropped it from a high place.  Specifically, somewhere about as high as the ceiling of the Temple’s main chamber.  You know, that you fell from, device in hand?”

“Oh,” says her mother, “I see.”

“Yes,” Fareeha says, “I’m not _stupid_.”  In fact, she got better marks than her mother, in school, knows this because her mother often used that as a reason why enlisting in the military would be a waste of Fareeha’s talents, and time.  How quickly her mother forgets that she is smart, when it no longer suits her to remember.  “It broke when you fell with it, and we didn’t know before we entered the Temple, or contacted Angela, because unfortunately neither of us thought to check.” 

Neither of us, says she, assigning the blame to the both of them, because in truth, both of them _should_ have thought to do so, and the blame truly is shared, in this instance.  It does not hurt, either, that saying so will surely make her mother more receptive to the criticism than would she be if Fareeha laid the blame solely at her feet, and it softens her previous statement that she is not stupid, makes her seem less accusatory.  A concession.

“Is it fixed now?” Her mother ignores entirely her discussion of responsibility, neatly sidesteps any assignation of blame, or admission of guilt.  Fine, Fareeha knew not to expect any better, even if she always has _hope._

“Not yet, no.  There were some minor repairs Angela did, but she says the main problem is the battery.  And before you ask—no, we can’t just buy a new one.  I thought of that.”

“Naturally.”  Ana sounds unsurprised, and quite resigned.  How many Overwatch missions went this way, Fareeha wonders, how many were a series of mishaps, but with the pressure of the world watching, and expecting from them perfection, every time?  That _would_ be stressful, and exhausting, and she wonders what it must have been like, after discovering they were betrayed from the inside, to look back and to wonder—what was truly a mishap, and what was sabotage?

Then again, her mother could be resigned simply because that is how _this_ series of missions have gone, with the two of them, or because she has gotten used to having to do similar, now that she is stripped of Overwatch’s once-considerable access to resources, and has to steal everything with which she works.

Speaking of theft, Fareeha is reminded of something…

“It’s one of the perpetual batteries that they used before the Crisis,” Fareeha explains, pulling out the busted unit and putting it on the table before them.  “I’d never actually seen one myself, but Angela recognized it immediately, and said you still used them in Overwatch?”

Provided Angela was being truthful, it is surprising, given that Overwatch had a hand in the outlawing of many Crisis-related technologies, and confiscating them.  Yet, when Fareeha thinks about it, it makes a sort of sense, too.  If Overwatch was still using highly-restricted pre-Crisis technology, then it is only natural that the rest of the world would not be able to keep up with their innovation, they were not five years behind, or ten, or fifteen, but nearly forty, left with only pre-Omnium technology.  Who could possibly hope to match their innovation, that being so?

Her mother, at least, has the grace to look a bit sheepish when she says, “Yes, we didn’t see the point in going back a few decades.”

“But it was fine for the rest of the world to?”  This technology powered back up generators in hospitals, in schools, kept the lights on in entire small villages.  Before the Crisis, there was unprecedented prosperity, and the removal of all Omnium-produced technology set the world back decades.  Her mother just sat on all this?  Angela could so causally admit to having it?  The thought makes Fareeha sick.  How many suffered needlessly, while Overwatch prospered?

“It’s very dangerous,” her mother tells her, “The things you can do with endless energy—we couldn’t have it falling into the wrong hands.”

“Because Overwatch turned out so much better?  You were betrayed, Mum.”

Half-standing, now, her mother says, “It wasn’t my call, Fareeha,” and there is a pain in her voice there, an anger.  “I did what I could to keep as much in the hands of the public as possible.  Do you think I wanted this?  Look around—look what they did to our country.  Do you think I just _sat by_ while they decided to leave the world to rot?  Who do you think I am, Fareeha?”  By the end of this, her mother is nearly yelling, but it is not angry, is not demanding, is _hurt_ , more than anything.

“I’m sorry,” Fareeha says, “I’m sorry.  I didn’t mean—I’m just having trouble adjusting to all this.  To the unfairness of it all.  I shouldn’t take it out on you.”  In this moment, Fareeha does not actually _want_ to apologize, because although she feels sorry for having upset her mother, she does not feel terribly sorry about the accusation itself.  She is right, Overwatch should not have hoarded that technology, and she is right, too, to stop her mother from defending such, even if she evidently was only doing so by rote, and not because she truly agrees with the policy.  Nothing she said was incorrect, but that does not mean it was fair of her to say, or the right time, the right place, and if she is going to do better, then she has to hold herself accountable for that.  So she does.

“No,” her mother tells her, surprising her greatly, and sounding so much older than she had, only a moment before, so much more tired, “ _I’m_ the one who should be sorry.  You’re right.  To keep this from the world was wrong, and I knew that, even then.  Yes, I fought it, but not hard enough.  When the UN told me no, I could’ve pushed, could’ve done more to ensure that it found its way back into the world _somehow,_ and kept the knowledge from being lost with the Omniums.  But I didn’t, and I’ll have to live with that for the rest of my life.”

Well, Fareeha does not really know what to say, to that.  The confession is so unlike her mother that it stuns her into silence.  Admitting fault is rare enough, but _guilt?_ Sadness?  Not her mother.

After Ana sits back down, there is a moment more of silence between them, two, in which neither seems sure of what to do with what was just said.  Eventually, Fareeha settles for saying, “Well, we can try to make that right, now,” and knows it is insufficient.

“Yes,” her mother agrees, “We can _try_.”

“Soooooo,” Fareeha says, draws out the word far too long, “Anyway, as we’ve just established, the battery is, uh, only in old Overwatch facilities.  Presumably.  And we’re going to need to break into one of those.”

“Lovely,” her mother says, in a tone that indicates that she does not at all find this to be lovely, and would really rather that Fareeha had said nearly anything else.

“Yeah,” Fareeha agrees, none too keen herself on another break-in so soon after their new miss, “Yeah.  And this time we don’t have the advantage of me working in Helix, either.  So that’s… not ideal.”  An understatement.  “ _But_ —”

“At least the bases are decommissioned,” her mother says, “There shouldn’t actually be anyone on the premises, save for Athena, and I have a few ideas about disabling her.”

“Right,” Fareeha says, “As I was about to say, we both know that you’ve broken into one of the decommissioned bases already, so…”

“We do?”  Her mother sounds genuinely surprised by this, as if she did not expect Fareeha to be able to figure out for herself where the sleep dart had come from.  Given that it only dawned on Fareeha a few minutes earlier, it is not a completely unfair assumption, but still, Fareeha’s pride is more than a little hurt by this.

“I know where you got the sleep dart from, Mum.  You don’t have to pretend you didn’t steal it—Angela mentioned that she’s been trying to figure out who took the prototypes of her modified tech.”  Is Fareeha disappointed in her mother?  A little, yes.  But she trusts her mother far more than most people to use the technology with discretion, and is relieved, at least, that it is _Ana_ who has the weapons in question, and not someone with far more ill intent.

Her mother’s eyes narrow, “You’re on a first name basis now, are you?”

How is that even relevant?  “I thought it was for the best to at least _pretend_ to try to get along, yes.  It’s worked better than threatening her thus far.  And that’s not the issue at hand, is it?”

“I still don’t trust her,” Ana says, “And you shouldn’t either.  I trusted her—trusted all of them—and look how that turned out.”

“It’s my choice, Mum, and I’m being careful.  And again, it’s not really relevant right now.  What _is_ is that I know you stole the sleep dart, and the grenades, and probably the nanites you used on me that first night.  I don’t care if you did—I really don’t.  I’d rather it was you than someone else.  But it’s important right now, because it means you definitely know how to get past Athena, somehow, which is what we need right now.”

A long pause, in which her mother seems to consider the matter, very deeply, before something in her face shifts, abruptly, a sign that she has reached a decision about whatever it was she was weighing the merits of in her mind.  “You’re right,” her mother says, “I _did_ steal the darts, and I _can_ get into the Alexandria facility again.”

Fareeha starts to say _Good_ , but her mother holds up one hand silences her.

“ _But_ ,” says she, “I can’t take you with me, and I’ll be back Monday morning at the earliest.”

It is only mid-afternoon on Saturday, and Fareeha does not know why it will take her mother two nights—or more—particularly while they are on a tight schedule, but that is not her primary objection, rather it is that, “You shouldn’t go alone.”

“I already did once before,” her mother tells her, “Didn’t I?”

Well, _yes_ , but that was out of necessity, and necessity is not best practice.  “It’s safer—”

“It isn’t,” Ana says, and there is a finality to her voice that Fareeha knows that there is no getting around.  “Athena knows me, and we have a protocol in place, set up before I ‘died.’  She’ll let me through, but I don’t know how she’d respond to you, and I can’t risk—it’s better this way.  Safer.”

From her voice, Fareeha knows that it is not _getting caught_ her mother worries that they are risking, and she wishes that she could protest that she is perfectly capable of defending herself, but in this case she cannot.  Athena is the closest thing to a God Program left uncontained, and she _is_ dangerous, whether she is treated as such or not.  So Fareeha must stay, while her mother goes, like she did when she was a child, must sit and wait, and hope that she comes home safe, knowing that not only her own happiness but the fate of the world lie in the balance.  It is not something she thought she would experience ever again, that sort of powerlessness, but it has found her yet again.

“Okay,” she acquiesces, for she knows she has no good argument against this.  “I’ll stay.  Just—be safe?”  What she does not say, but she knows her mother hears, is _I need you to come home_ , and _I cannot lose you again, not now, not so soon._

“I will,” her mother promises, the same way she always did when Fareeha was younger.  It was a lie then, and it is a lie now, for they both know there can be no such guarantees, not in their line of work, but it is a comforting one.  For a moment, Fareeha lets herself believe in it.

Her mother will return home.  All will be well.  It has to be, it has to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i have a lot of thoughts abt access to technology post-crisis but rn i cant quite put them to words
> 
> anyway, hope u enjoyed, next week is a lot more introspective... very internally driven/set-up for part two and not as action driven
> 
> lmk ur thoughts!!


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> got distracted mssging a really hot butch and almost forgot to upload this. but LAKSJDLAKSDFA thats just how it is

Despite it being demanded of her at her job, Fareeha is not terribly good at waiting, particularly not where her mother is involved.  Part of her thinks that she ought to be, that she ought to have worked harder to emulate her mother’s sniper’s patience, her ability to wait, impassively, for hours, and to be ready all the while, but Fareeha has not, still finds herself fighting the urge to pace, to be distracted, when she is guarding the God Program.  It is not what she signed up for with Helix, to stand there, still and silent, is only something she has had to do in order to earn the privilege of being in the Raptora program; a trade off she can accept.  But even as she is adjusting to that sort of waiting, forces herself to do her job well, for she has pride in herself, and all that she does, and a part of that is always giving her best effort at things, even if it means being the very best at standing there and doing nothing but wait, it is one thing to stand guard lest something happen, and quite another to know that somewhere out there, her mother is doing something incredibly dangerous, and that her failure might spell the beginning of another Crisis.  How could anyone stay calm under such circumstances?

Yet Fareeha must, expects herself to, because to give in to panic, to worry, to fear, would only make her life harder, would accomplish nothing.  Not that she is accomplishing much as it is, is only let to watch, and to wait, and to hope each time that her phone pings that it is not the alert she has set up, in order to warn her if anything is noted to have happened at the old Overwatch base in Alexandria.  If she does get such a notification, she knows what it will mean—her mother will have been caught, or killed, and it will be for her to explain to the authorities that something is wrong with the Anubis God Program, with its containment system, and then she will be investigated, too, for her connection to her mother, for her tardiness in reporting as much, for her violations of the PETRAS Act.  All the while precious time will be slipping away from them, the world marching ever onwards even as Anubis strains to break the chains of its containment.

And then what?

Either the day will come, and it will not break out, because the readings her mother saw were not actually indicative of a containment breach, or because, for whatever reason, someone else knew and was able to stop it, and they will think Fareeha mad, or worse, a liar, and she will be punished for her crimes, for her role in aiding and abetting her mother.

Or the day will come, and Anubis will be free, and she will be proven right, and vindicated, but only at the price of another Crisis.  That is nothing to celebrate, certainly.

It would, therefore, be an understatement to say that Fareeha is apprehensive about the success of her mother’s mission, waits on bated breath for any sign of _anything_ , on the news or in person.  She knows that she will receive no communication from her mother, who still regards leaving a trail of their discussions as an undue risk, and not unfairly so, but that means she will not know how her mother is feeling about her prospects, or of any delays that arise, until everything is already decided.

That is worse than the waiting, being left in the dark.  To distract herself from this, from her powerlessness, from being consumed by her own thoughts, drowning in them alone in the middle of the desert, from the knowledge that her mother is in danger, and she can do nothing to help, and the _world_ is in danger, and waiting is her best option, if she wants to ensure that it is saved, she goes out.

Later, she knows, she will regret this, the shift back to being awake during the daytime.  When two weeks are up, if the world is still as she knows it, if she is not in prison and Anubis has not begun the next Crisis, then she will go back to working nights, at least until the Overwatch related press blows over, and it is not bad PR for her to be seen in Helix’s employ.  Then, she will have to again make the painful adjustment to her schedule, sleeping during the days and being awake only when the rest of the world rests, spending all her time alone, _so_ alone.

If she stays, that is. 

She could go, could leave with her mother and not look back, could go on to save the rest of the world, too, to serve not only her community but everyone, everywhere, or at least try to.  It is an appealing thought, far more so than returning to staying alone in an empty condo, her only interactions with others limited to her work and being glared at on the street, for having the audacity to stand up for what she believes in, and to live her life as authentically as possible.  To leave, she tells herself, would make her happy, would rid her of that problem.

Yet she knows that this is not true, not really.  If she goes with her mother, all their work will be in secret, and she will have Ana, yes, and whomever else has been left in Overwatch, now that they have gone dark, but she will still live apart from the world she is working so hard to protect, and not truly live in it.  She will pass through life like a ghost, not being able to make new and meaningful attachments, or set down roots anywhere.  How would that be different from her present troubles?

It is a nice thing, to believe that by going with her mother, she would at least be able to help everyone, but it is only a fantasy, and she knows that.  There are too many people who need help, in too many places, are too many mini-crises demanding too many resources for her to solve them, or do anything close to such.  Even when Overwatch was at the height of its power, they could not save everyone, could only do a fraction of what they needed to do, and even less of the things they _wanted_ to. 

Why would being with them bring any satisfaction?  In what way would it be different from being here, where she has one important job, works to protect the world from the threat of another Crisis, does her part and does it well, even as she laments that she cannot be of help elsewhere.  No matter with whom she works, or where she goes, she will never be able to do all that she wants to do, all that the world deserves.  She knows this, has come to realize it, in the past few days, and maybe she can never accept that helplessness, that inability to save everyone, but she can at least come to terms with the fact that she will have to do as best she can with what role she does have.

So maybe she will stay, after all.  She cannot save the whole world, cannot even try to, can only do her own part, strive her very hardest to do what is best with the time and resources she has.  Would it not be better, then, to put all of that energy into one place, one community?  Would that not have a greater impact?

And, she thinks, as she sits out in the sun, enjoys the fresh air of the small public fountain near her condo, maybe she can reconnect to these people, this place.  Without her mother’s Overwatch jacket on, her tattoo still stands out, yes, but she could be anyone, is not immediately pre-judged for her loyalty to a now defunct and oft criticized organization, is instead just another woman enjoying the sun, the warmth of the day and the laughter of children playing.

When she was in the military, she did not have this, a strong connection to the people and to the land she defended.  She wanted one, yes, but they were not able to spend time with civilians often, mostly formed relationships with her fellow soldiers, and unlike those with whom she served, Fareeha did not live in Egypt for her entire life, or have family she was close to living in the country—had not spoken to her mother’s relatives since she enlisted, because of her and Ana’s falling out.  Her stronger ties, in that time, were to Canada, and to her father, and serving Egypt, protecting the people there, was more an abstraction than a reality.

She wonders if everyone feels like this, at some point in their life.  Probably, they do, but still, she thinks it must surely be somewhat worse for her, growing up in diaspora and then returning home, but losing the family which tied her to the land in the first place.  Always, she feels as if there is something to be proven, because she thinks that other people will find her not _Egyptian_ enough, will think her ways too Western, and her accent too noticeable.  They would not be wrong, exactly, because she does hold certain attitudes which she knows are more prevalent in the West, such as her thoughts on her relationship to her mother, and whether or not it is her place to follow that plan Ana set out for her, but that does not make her not Egyptian.  Within this country, there are people whose blood is wholly Egyptian, who have lived here their whole lives, who also hold the same beliefs as her, who are gay, who have deified their parents, who think that their culture is beautiful, and worthy of preserving, but that such does not make it immune to criticism. 

Perhaps that has been a part of her problem, in rebuilding her connection to the country of her birth—the friends she ahs made here have all been from the military, have not been the sort of people who are more likely to hold the same attitudes, the same opinions as her.  She cannot expect the whole country to be her community, can only look for likeminded people within it, as she would anywhere else.  Now that she is no longer enlisted, not moving from base to base, her time and movements not so constrained as they once were, she should be able to meet more people, to maybe start to find her place.

And would that not be better, to know the people whom she might give her life, to defend?  Would it not make her more effective, to have a connection to the land that is not only legal, is not just the notion of some legacy, but something real, something lived, something that ties her to the people whom she serves to protect. 

There is an appeal in staying, in setting down roots, that Overwatch does not have for her, not any longer.  Once, she might have tried to have found herself within it, been surrounded by people who, like herself, have given up connections to their communities, or lived between worlds for so long they no longer feel they fully fit in with civilians, not in their home country or anywhere, but that Overwatch is gone, now.  Who is left?  Her mother, the ghost? 

Desperately, Fareeha wants to have a relationship with Ana, again, wants the chance to make things right, but she knows, too, that such is far more complicated than she makes it sound, and that spending more time with her mother will not guarantee that they will come to an understanding, even if she tries.  And she is beginning to accept, now, that even if she and her mother can heal their relationship, can make amends, and try to move beyond their past, that maybe they do not bring out the best in one another, and would both be healthier and happier with less contact.

Still, it is a drastic thing to consider, giving up joining Overwatch, her dream, even if it is not the same Overwatch that once was.  So much of her identity has been built around joining them.  She came here, to Egypt, not to protect these people, not to serve them, but to build her resume, to prove that she could be a strong, competent soldier, so that Overwatch could accept her; Egypt was only ever an afterthought, so why would she change that now?

Because she is not eighteen, any longer, and she knows, now, that she cannot be like her mother is now, a ghost wherever she goes, cannot live a life where she is simply passing through, and has no connection to anyone, or anything.  In recent months, she has begun to feel it, dissatisfaction, restlessness.  She thought, at first, it was her new assignment, blamed the work, but she knows, now that such is not the case.  She is proud to serve, proud to do what she can to protect the world.  What it is, rather, is that she is _lonely_ , has isolated herself from the very purpose with which she set out to do her job, to protect the innocent.  Without contact with the outside world, they, and her goals with them, have become increasingly abstracted, have been lost sight of, swallowed up by her ambition and her tendency to reject others before they can reject her.

It is not healthy, she knows, would not recommend this life to anyone else.

But she can change it.  She can, she must.

In her head, she has a strong connection to Egypt, to the issues the country faces, the land itself.  She can think for hours and hours about gentrification, about neo-colonialism, about how the world has used and abandoned her country, left them alone to rebuild, after the Crisis, but stripped them of the resources with which to do so.  She can recognize the mechanical camels as a perversion of her own, more specific culture, as a person of Bedouin descent, can think it is wrong, and that they should not just accept it, because it is good for marketing, for tourism.  She can know the ways in which the relative economic power of other nations is leveraged against her own, pushes them into catering to tourist industries perpetually, and not working to do other things which would have more benefit to _their_ citizens, living here, who perhaps produce less revenue than tourism, with their taxes, but are people whose lives hang in the balance.  All of these things, she has thought about at length, having nothing better to do during her long shifts, no other use of her time or anyone to talk to, but all the thinking in the world accomplishes nothing.

What is she actually _doing_?  Not much.  She has felt it is not her place, because she has not lived in Egypt her whole life, because her values are different from the traditional ones she thinks of ‘true’ Egyptians as holding, even as she knows that is not true, because her people are not a monolith, and never have been.  But why should it not be her place?  Does she not live here too?  Was she not born here, with the rest of them?  She is not some tourist, some interloper, could settle down here, could meet people, become involved in community efforts which address the concerns she has already.  She need not worry about her voice drowning out others whom she sees as more worthy, and she herself can be a member of her community, in her own right, if she allows herself to stay here, and to grow attached.

Why should she not?  Angela is in no way Egyptian, yet seems already to be on good terms with the café owner next door to her, and from her idle comments while she worked, yesterday, she is getting to know others in her neighborhood, learning the language better, trying to ensure that what she does is not too much of a disruption for the very people whom she seeks to help.  Why can Fareeha not do the same—and better?

Perhaps because she is afraid.  It is an ugly thing to admit, fear, but it is there, and strong.  She has avoided connecting too much with civilians for fear that she is going to be rejected, that she is going to have confirmed for her that she is not a _real_ Egyptian, not in their eyes, or that she will find herself unable to relate to others who are more religious than herself, or are not gay.  She is afraid that they will look at her, and they will see someone pretending to be like the rest of them, playing at being an Egyptian, when really she ought to have stayed home, in Canada with her father.  Yes, there are people here who are secular, who are gay, who are mixed race, like herself, but she has been afraid to seek them out.  Even knowing that things have changed, in the time she has been alive, that attitudes towards people like herself have grown more tolerant,  have not lessened this worry, because it is not about the other people, not really, is about her perception of herself.

She feels fake, false, like she is only pretending to be the person she presents herself as.  No amount of pride in who she is has helped that, because the problem is not that she is ashamed.  Both of her cultures are important to her, and she is fortunate to have been given access to both of them, to have such a rich history, to know where she comes from and to have such meaning in her life; some other people do not.  But a lifetime of wanting so badly to be just like her mother, to be the perfect soldier, have led her to squash down other parts of herself, to quash all emotions which do not fit in with the image she has in her mind of whom she ought to be.  For so long, she has not allowed herself to acknowledge her anxieties, her fears, her sadness, and so they have grown, and grown, unchecked because she will not confront them, and now have become far greater than they ever would have been, otherwise.

What she is really afraid of, she can admit to herself now, in the light of day, surrounded by other people, is that Egypt will reject her just as her mother once did, that she truly will be without a people, without a home.

That is not fair to her country—it is not even fair to her mother.

What transpired between herself and Ana, if she is truly being honest, was far more mutual than _either_ of them would like to admit.  Fareeha played her role, too, in the two of them not talking, could have tried to contact her mother, at any point, or not challenged her mother to disown her in the first place.  When she chose to defy Ana’s wishes for her, she put her mother in a difficult position, because her grandmother was, and is, so very traditional, and maybe her mother should have known better, but this is how she was taught to parent—to reject the child who rejects your plan for them.  Fareeha knew this, knew how much her mother had struggled to do better, when raising her, and yet, when the time came, she practically _dared_ An to do it, told her that she may as well do so, if they were only going to argue when they spoke, anyway, may as well not talk to Fareeha any longer.

Was it right to say that, to try and weaponize her mother’s trauma to win an argument, just so she knew that her mother would be hurting like her refusal to trust in her daughter’s abilities was hurting Fareeha?  No.  Was it right of her mother to do just as Fareeha suggested, to decide of the both of them that maybe a complete severance of their relationship would be less painful than to attempt to find some common ground?  No, also.  She was the parent, and it was—is—her job to be the more mature one, the more responsible.

But Fareeha understands why she did what she did.  She always has, even at her angriest, known why her mother thought she was making the right decision.  Ana’s oldest brother is completely estranged from Fareeha’s grandmother, has been since he was in his late teens, and he is happier, she knows, than Ana was, staying in contact with her mother for so many years, suffering her disapproval, her anger, doing as best she could to appease her.  Surely, it must have hurt her uncle, n the beginning, to lose nearly his entire family, but he is happier, now, than her mother is and Fareeha can see how Ana would think that it would be best for Fareeha to have a clean break.

Still, it was not her choice to make.

To say that Fareeha’s thoughts on the issue are complicated would be an understatement.  With her mother having ‘died,’ it is easy for her to see how much the both of them overreacted, how much it was hurting her not to reconcile, how she _needs_ closure, needs to forgive Ana—not for her mother’s sake, but for her own, because she cannot live a happy life if she stays so angry, so afraid that she is somehow unworthy of love.  For her own future, she needs to set this behind her.

Yet knowing this, accepting it, believing that they do love one another, deep down, and that a relationship between them is going to again be possible, even if it will be forever altered, does not meant that it will be _easy_ , or that she is done being hurt, being angry, as simply as that.  What it is is this: a dedication to work hard, as she does in all things, to improve and to rebuild their relationship.  Nothing more, nothing less, and not for Ana but for herself.

Part of putting the past behind her is accepting the role she played in what transpired.  She knows this, and she is trying. 

Having her mother back in her life has not played out like she might have imagined it would, had she given herself permission to even imagine such a thing, rather than accepting her mtoher’s death so quickly, and trying to just think nothing about it, feel nothing about it.  It has made her question herself, her place in the world, made her wonder what it is she has been blind to, given her focus on Overwatch, and Overwatch alone.  Does she want to become like her mother, as she is now?

Ana was different, when Fareeha was growing up, look different, sounded different, in interviews, in promotional materials, and when she spoke to Fareeha, the pain was there, surely, but children are always blind to the ways in which their parents suffer, cannot imagine what it is they are sacrificing.  As an adult, with Overwatch gone, and the shine of heroism with it, her mother seems tired, and is living a strange half-life, not truly existing in the world she purports to save, and Fareeha does not see how she could possibly be happy, as she is, dead to the world, fortunate enough to have died before they could hate her, but unable to ever truly live again amongst everyone else.  A high price.  It must be lonely, it must be sad.

And, for once, Fareeha thinks she _is_ following in her mother’s example, and that scares her.  Always, she wanted to be a hero, like Ana, to be strong, like Ana, to save the world, and to uphold their family legacy, and she is all of those things, she is, but now?  Now when she looks at her mother, she sees her own future, and it is not a good one.  To live only for others, to know only her comrades, to succeed and fail as one, living separate from the people one purports to work for, never _truly_ existing in society—it scares her, the idea that she could become like that, that she is already heading down that path.

She is.  She knows she is.  When she sleeps all day, and crosses into the world only at night, when she only greets people in passing, and otherwise dares them to stare at her, to hate her for her beliefs, makes not attempt to find others who would understand, who might connect with her, she is living between worlds too, just as much as her mother is.  This cannot be all that there is to life, cannot be what it is to exist in their world.  There must be more, for her.

Working only at night, as she has of late, it is easy to ignore that she is out of place in the rest of the world, easy to forget what it was like, to truly be a part of community, but here, in her place in the sun, there are other people around her, children splashing at the other side of the fountain, their mothers sat gossiping among each other as they do so, and Fareeha realizes, suddenly, that surrounded as she is by other people, she has no idea what it would mean, to try and talk to them, what she would say.

No.  This will not be her future.

When her mother returns, she knows what she ought to say, knows that she ought to tell Ana that she cannot work with Overwatch again after this, that she cannot be a part of this life.  When her mother returns, she knows, also, that she will not do that.

It would be good for her, leaving Overwatch behind, not allowing herself to think about it again, letting that dream die.  But she needs, too, for her own happiness, to mend her relationship with her mother, to heal that hurt, so that she _can_ move forwards, and if she is going to do that then she needs more time, needs—well, she needs the impossible, she is certain.  But how can she ever be happy here, knowing that her mother is out, in the world, is alone, and in danger, with no one left to watch her back, splintered as the few remaining agents of Overwatch are?  She will be lonely, if she goes, will face a painful and uncertain future, but if she stays?  If she loses her mother again, does not ever have the opportunity to reconcile with her mother?

It has killed her spirit, losing her mother for the first time, knowing that she never made things right with her, and that Ana went to her grave thinking that Fareeha did not want to speak to her, any longer, that she _hated_ her.  Now, she has been lucky enough to have her mother returned to her, has been fortunate enough to be given a second chance.  Can she really squander that?

No, no.

To do so would be an insult to all the other people who have been in situations similar to herself, who lost their parents to the combat and upheaval which have marked the last two and a half decades.  So many of Fareeha’s friends growing up had lost one or both of their parents, and most if not all of her suqadmates are in the same situation, enlisted because they feel they _need_ to do something, after having grown up with such loss.  She was lucky, so lucky, to grow up with both of her parents, to lose her mother only as an adult, and she knows what everyone thought of her, when she and her mother had their falling out, knows that some of the people who matter most to her would have killed to have been in her position, to have a mother, and could not believe that she would throw that relationship away as she did.

They did not understand how complicated mothers can be, not having their own, could not have comprehended the pain it caused Fareeha to do so, even as it felt like a necessity, to be free, to do things her own way, and to not be punished for it, to not be scolded for pursuing her own happiness.  But they were right—not because they understood her circumstances, but because Fareeha can see, now that Ana is back in her life, the ways in which severing that relationship hurt her, made it hard for her to feel good about herself, to allow herself to be happy, to feel that she is worthy of her role, of success and respect.  It put a chip on her shoulder, and the only way in which she can be better is to try, somehow, to find peace.

Maybe she will not reconcile with Ana, even if she does regret what happens.  Maybe that is beyond them.  But for herself, she has to try, has to have some sort of closure.

Knowing that she did not try—that was the worst thing, when Ana died.  If she lets her mother leave, again, lets her go off on her own, and something happens, if Ana dies without her ever saying what it is she feels, without her ever even _trying_ properly?

That would kill Fareeha. 

More than anything, it is why she is worrying, right now, why she is out here, in public, with other people, because here, she cannot allow herself to break down, to cry, to give any outward indication of how she is feeling, at this moment—terrified.  Her mother is risking her life, again, and Fareeha knows there will be no third chance, if Ana dies again, knows that this will have been it.

It has been days, now, and she has not told her mother that she loves her.  She has not told her mother that she was right, about the ways in which war, killing, changed Fareeha—but that it was not her choice to make, and despite the pain of that, the ways in which it has altered her, Fareeha would choose it again.  She has not told Ana that she wanted to call, so badly, so many times, but did not know what to say, and that although she is still hurt by what happened between them, it never meant that she did not care, did not understand why it was her mother said what she did to her.

Regret has eaten at her for weeks, months now, has made her doubt herself in all things.  What if that happens again?

What if she loses her mother not once, but twice?

If this were any other problem, she might call her father, might tell him what it is that she is grappling with, and he could help, could talk to her about this.  Or she could call Saleh, or any of her other squadmates with whom she is close.  If she really wanted to, she could call Sylvie, her best friend back home in Canada.  Any of them could listen to her, could reassure her that she is being ridiculous, that everything is fine, or offer her comfort, or advice.  She does not reach out to any of those people, it is true, but the option is there, always, and now?

Now, when she has finally decided to try and connect to people more, to reach out, to not live so separately from the world, she cannot.  None of them can no Ana is alive, and she is left, again, to drown in her own emotions.

In her lungs, the air is dry, even as she draws a too-sharp breath, and she tries to focus on that.  For all that the heat makes it seem like there is not enough oxygen in her lungs, makes her chest feel tighter than it ought to, like a weight pressing down on her from all sides, she knows that there _is_ enough air for her, and that she feels that way, feels the heat of it, is proof of that.  She is here, she is breathing, is still in public with the children playing and their mothers laughing, not alone in her apartment, out of step with the rest of the world.

She is here, she exists.

For now.

But she cannot be alone with this, not for much longer. 

Who can she talk to, though?  Even Angela, who knows that she is violating the PETRAS Act, knows that there is something else afoot, suspects that Fareeha has an accomplice, does not know about Ana, does not know that she is here, alive.  Fareeha cannot confide in her about this worry, cannot even call her, for it would be far, far too obvious that she is not where she is supposed to be, is not in Alexandria at all, but still here, in Giza, two hours away.  And how would she explain that, other than to come clean, and to say that she has an accomplice?

This secrecy is killing Fareeha, just as regret was before.  It is an impossible situation she has put herself in, being involved in this, or an impossible situation her _mother_ has put her in, to choose between the opportunity to heal herself, by reconciling, or at least trying to do so, speaking her mind, or to be able to live a whole life, with the rest of the world. 

Of course, it is not fair to say it is her mother’s fault that she is here, for it is not.  Ana’s choices may have created apart of this situation, but if Fareeha did not have already the regret of having lost her mother before, with so much unsaid, then she could have a clear conscience, now, could feel a normal amount of worry about her mother leaving, and not be paralyzed by the fear that she will have again lost her chance for a resolution between the two of them.  Both of them have created this scenario, and neither has intended to. 

Now they are here—or Fareeha is, and Ana away, again—and there is nothing to be done for it, nothing but to wait, and to tell herself that things will be fine, that her other will return, that she will still have her chance to try and to make things right, for herself, if not for her mother also.

How did her mother do it, wait in her sniper’s nests, and watch battles unfold?  How could she watch, as her comrades were shot, and she could not go to them, could not help, could not give away her position, needed to stay still, and silent, and only deal with the threat from afar, when she had the shot?  Such inaction is killing Fareeha. 

Always, she wanted to follow her mother’s path, to be that sort of hero, but she never did want to be a sniper.  It is not for her, to wait like this, is not for her to accept that those she cares about might be killed, and to not act, to just stay in place.

She needs to go, needs to be there, in Alexandria, with her mother.  She cannot be here, cannot wait, cannot just sit here, surrounded by strangers, and tell herself everything will be fine, pretend things are normal, and she is just another person who is enjoying the weather.

In a rush, she stands, is halfway out the little courtyard before she realizes, suddenly, that she does not know where she is going, really.  Alexandria, broadly, and near to the old Overwatch base, in specific, but where beyond that?  Where has her mother decided to stay, where is she hiding?  If Fareeha _does_ find her, how will she explain that she is there?

Ana would not appreciate it if Fareeha were to come.  Never has she taken lightly challenges to her authority, and this was not a request as a mother, but an order, as the person leading this operation, something that Fareeha has no right to challenge, or actual desire to.  This is not her operation, and she would not know where to begin, commanding something like this, has never been good at stealth, never wanted to make calls like the ones her mother is making, about kidnapping people and breaking into places. 

As a daughter, not a fellow soldier, she wants to be there for her mother, but she knows it will not be taken that way, if she tries to go to Alexandria, knows that her mother will not believe that is her reason.  After all, Fareeha never cared enough to call once in five years.  Why, suddenly, would she do so now?  To try and join her would be seen as a challenge to her authority, or worse, a questioning of her competence, her honesty, her ability to carry out this mission and to do so correctly.

That is not what Fareeha wants.  She _does_ trust her mother, despite everything, has chosen to do so, to believe that her mother is being honest with her, and that she will not leave, again, not after she saw how it affected Fareeha, when she was not back at the condo when she ought to have been.  Seeing such, she _will_ know better than to leave, Fareeha has to believe that.  And she does.  Her mother loves her, and does not want her to hurt, said it was not her intent, to do so to Fareeha, has admitted that she regrets the impact her actions have on Fareeha.  She will not leave again, and Fareeha knows this, does not want Ana to think that she doubts it, for she does not.

But it is not her mother leaving voluntarily that worries her.  She has seen Ana’s scar, knows how close the Widowmaker came to striking a killing blow.  Her mother is not unkillable, never was, and now that Fareeha is aware of that mortality—keenly so—it is hard to accept that Ana is alone, on this mission, hard to believe blindly that all will be well, and she will come home safe.  Accidents happen, things can go wrong, and maybe will.  Her mother need not intend to abandon Fareeha to do so, and both of them are powerless to change that reality.

Going to Alexandria will not change that.  If her mother asked her not to come along, then it must have been for a reason, must mean that, in this, Fareeha is a liability.  She will not put her mother in danger because she worries, will have to trust her to try her hardest to come home safe, just as she always has.  If she comes home safe, then—

No, Fareeha cannot think that, cannot think that if. 

 _When_ her mother comes home safe, they will have a serious conversation.  No more putting things off. 

Resolved, Fareeha returns to her condo, and resumes waiting.

Time passes, as it is wont to do, day into night and then morning comes again.  Fareeha is left alone in her apartment, with her thoughts, drifting further and further from the certainty of the here and the now, worries growing the more time passes with no sign of her mother.  She should be back, now, surely.  Monday morning, her mother said, she would be back, and it is time, now. 

But maybe—maybe she meant later?  It is only 08:00, now, there are still many hours of morning yet remaining.  For her to not be here does not mean that anything is wrong.

This Fareeha tells herself, even if she does not believe it.

Unlike Fareeha, who is always on time, her mother is chronically early—not so much so that it often inconveniences others, but enough to be notable.  All throughout Fareeha’s childhood, she had to be careful to be ready early, too, because if her mother said they would be leaving for somewhere at 07:00, her mother would ask why she was taking so long at 06:45, worry that Fareeha was going to make them late.  So when her mother said _morning_ , she thought, surely, that she would be seeing her back here at 04:45, or some similar hour, slept on the couch just in case, so that she would be there if her mother came in while she was sleeping.

But it is morning proper, and she is not here.  Fareeha is trying her best not to think about it, is focusing her efforts instead on cooking.  Usually, she has a quick breakfast, but this morning she finds herself dallying in the kitchen, focusing her anxiety instead on making devilled eggs, rather than just scrambling them to eat alongside toast, because if she is focused on cooking, on not ruining her food, then she cannot think for too long about her mother, has to focus on other, more immediate things.

Her father told her, once, that this was how he got through the Crisis, always keeping himself busy, and their home in Canada shows as much, is decorated with little whittled animals, and ships in bottles.  So many, many ships in bottles.  Both hobbies require concentration, require delicacy, require time, and if he could just focus all his stress on that, on the motion of the knife or placing everything perfectly, then he did not have to acknowledge where it was Ana was, what it was she was doing.  Fareeha did not understand him, then, took it on faith that her mother _would_ return, that she would not die, because she was a hero, because she was the best, because she promised that she would.  Fareeha was not naïve, was far from it, knew that it was _possible_ for her mother do be killed, but for as long as she can remember, her mother has been in the field, and so it was difficult to understand that there could be another way of them living.  The risks were so often there that they did not register, for her, she became numb to the worrying, having no normal life to compare it to.

Not so for her father.  He whittled and he worried and he worked. 

He does so still, with Fareeha serving in Helix.  Like mother, like daughter.

And now, she is like her father, too, knows loss, knows what it is for her mother do tie on her, to disappear from her world just as quickly as she returned to it, and now—now she worries too.  She wishes she could call him.  How long has it been?  A month, two?  He tried to talk to her when the PETRAS Act passed, knew how she would be feeling, but she did not want to speak about it with anyone, even with him, could not bear the thought that he might pity her, might think her weak.

He does not, she knows, but sometimes…

Sam does not understand her, did not understand her mother.  They are soldiers, and he is not, and so he cannot know what death is, for them, how differently they experience it than he, and he does not know, either, what it is for emotions to be so discouraged, such poison.

All soldiers have to keep a brave face on, to be strong, because if morale is low, people will hesitate, will balk, will get all of them killed.  And they cannot confide in anyone, cannot seek help, because they are all of them afraid, so afraid, of being discharged , declared unfit for duty—weak.  To all of them, it is poison, that weakness, because they need to be strong, for their comrades to rely on them, and also because of the culture there, of masculinity, wherein vulnerability, fallibility, are discouraged strongly.  To be a woman in such a place is even worse, because she knows what they think of her, many of them, knows that they are more likely to perceive her emotions differently, to read into any little deviation from her, and to say _See?  She’s hysterical.  She’s too emotional.  She’s not cut out for this._ It is a reality of all women who find themselves surrounded by men, and Fareeha knew this, going into the military, but she foolishly thought she could prove herself to them, could win their acceptance.

She has—for now.  Her squadmates respect her, but at what cost?  They do so only if she behaves as she has, showing few of them her emotions; Saleh is the exception, and not the rule.  If they see her hesitant, if they see her sad, if they see her afraid, she knows that she risks losing that approval.  Many of them think she is not like other women, somehow, is different.

That is not true.  She has emotions like anyone else, is as capable of being afraid, of being hurt.  It does not make her lesser—nor would another woman, who is in the same situation as her, be lesser for responding differently.

Such a woman might actually be better off.

Now that Fareeha’s grief is catching up with her, her pain, she is realizing just how much she has hurt herself, in closing everything off, in not allowing herself full access to her emotions, even in private.  She has not been able to heal, from her pain, has not been able to form connections with the people around her, has not been able to move forward from her past, all things she wants, desperately so.  But she does not know how to do those things, now, having spent so much time avoiding uncomfortable feelings that she no longer knows what it is to embrace them, to allow them to wash through her without destroying her entirely.

Finding happiness feels impossible, now, even as she knows it is not.  If only she can figure out how to handle her emotions, again, if only she can reach out to her mother, and only if Ana returns safely.

That is out of her hands, and she struggles to accept it, too, thinks about it too long, too hard, lets the knife in her hand slip as she slices the eggs—“Fuck!”

Like most hand wounds, it bleeds profusely, far more than a cut of its size would warrant, in any other part of her body, and there is already blood pooling on her fingertip when she jerks her hand back from the knife, turns it over, looks at it.  Her trigger finger, it is possibly the worst place to have cut herself, will be a danger later, if she needs to fire a weapon, and is a liability, too.  With a recent cut, it is all too easy to accidently reopen the wound in a scuffle, and to leave blood at the crime scene by so doing.  Even having not done black ops, she knows this, knows that it could cause trouble for her later, when next they have to break into the Anubis facility.

 _If_.

But she cannot think about that if, right now, cannot allow herself to doubt that her mother is alive, cannot give into that fear, that despair, for many reasons, not the least of which being that she needs to stop bleeding before she ruins all of the eggs.

She makes certain that her stovetop is off, and hurries back into her bathroom, wraps her hand in a washcloth, tightly, ignores the throbbing pain as she does so, presses down to staunch the bleeding.  Pressure on a wound is important, she tells herself, even as she hisses through her teeth at the sensation. 

At least the pain is something to focus on, something concrete, something she can solve.  At least if she is thinking about this, she is not thinking about her mother, who may be lying somewhere bleeding to death even as—

—Okay, maybe the injury is not such a great distraction, after all.  Her mind has still found a way to wander to her mother, who may be suffering far worse than she, even now, may have died already, and Fareeha has no way of knowing, no way of contacting her, no way of reaching out. 

Before, it was a struggle, when she wanted to contact her mother but thought that she could not, when she was younger, when she missed Ana, needed her comfort, but they were not speaking, and she was not brave enough, or humble enough, to set aside their differences and to seek her mother out.  Now, this is far, far worse.  Somehow, it is harder, even, than her mother’s first death, because in that, at least, she knew that her mother was no longer able to feel any pain.

Her mother could be hurt.  Her mother could need help.  But there is nothing Fareeha can do about that--she cannot even _cook_ for herself properly, feels in that moment that she cannot do anything without screwing up.  If her mother trusted her, if her mother had faith in her abilities, then she would be there, by Ana’s side. 

But she is useless, at things like this.  For all that she is learned, for how far she has come, there are still things her mother understands far better than she, still ways in which she is not able to be of help, even if she wants to be.

And this might be what the rest of her life is like, if her mother yet lives.  Once this mission is over, if she does not go, again, with her mother, then she will be left in the dark, again, will be left behind as her mother risks her life, will have no means of contacting her, until Ana decides she has the time to visit, again, or that it is safe enough to make a call. 

Can she live with that?

Can anyone?

She cannot think about that now, is not ready to, does not even know if her mother will _want_ her to come along, when all of this is over, does not know if she has a place, in whatever remains of Overwatch.  She may have no choice but to accept that her mother is out there, in danger, may have no say in whether or not her mother will let her work alongside her.  Clearly she has not proven herself yet, or her mother would have let her come to Alexandria, and if she continues to fail—

She hopes that her mother will give her a chance, to decide for herself what to do, this time.  Maybe her mother learned, from their last fight, that saying no to Fareeha is hardly effective, and maybe she will reconsider doing so, will allow her to make this choice for herself.  Maybe.  But this is not the same as enlisting, is trying to work with her mother directly, with a skillset that is not her own.

Although she can hope, she knows this is not in her hands, not really. Easily, her mother could take the opportunity to make her own decision from Fareeha, has that right to.  Yet still, Fareeha cannot help but believe that things will be different, this time, that her mother will yield the choice to her, if Fareeha only explains what it would mean, to be allowed to determine this for herself, if she only describes what pain it caused her, for her mother to attempt to rob her of that in the past.

When, on the first morning, her mother returned late, she said how hurt she had been, by Ana’s not-death, how difficult it had made her life, and her mother, uncharacteristically, _apologized,_ said she had not considered, fully, how her actions harm Fareeha.

Maybe this will be the same.  Maybe if she speaks to Ana, as an adult, does not argue with her, or yell, does not blame but simply explains what an impact it has had on her life, to feel that her mother thinks her unworthy of serving, or unable to make good decisions for herself, _maybe_ then her mother will hear her, and understand, will know that this is something she needs, to be able to choose to go with her, or to not, and maybe all will be well.

It is a high hope, and one only possible if her mother comes home to her today.  Even then, she must have the courage to bring the matter up, the strength to do so without accusing, but fairly, must rehearse what it is she is going to say, so that she does not go in unprepared and somehow mess things up by saying the wrong thing, doing the wrong thing.  How will she approach this?

Most conversations, it seems, the honest ones she has, few and far between, happen by accident, not because she is _trying_ to bring up that which is difficult, that which is painful.  A result of that, of the lack of planning, is the tendency for thing to go awry, to be misconstrued, and with her mother, especially, she knows she must be careful, knows this issue requires a delicate touch.  Things are still hard between them, and they are so used to fighting that they fall into it naturally, misconstrue as an attack that which is innocent.  Fareeha cannot blame Ana alone for this, does it too, but it does complicate the matter, to say the least.

How does one say _I want to talk about the worst fight we ever had_?  How does an honest discussion of _This is how it hurt me, the things you said?_ not sound like an accusation?  How can she explain that _I don’t know if I can forgive you, ever, but I want to try to start fresh, in the meantime, because it’s killing me to stay angry at you, is suffocating me,_ and make it palatable, particularly when, if asked, she will admit _I’m not doing this for you, I’m doing this for me_?

There are no easy answers.  If there were, then perhaps they would have had this conversation years ago, when her mother was still alive the first time.  But they did not, could not, would not.  So now they are here, in the present, and it is harder, even, than before, the pain of their old arguments compounded by the pain of having lost her mother, and what that did to her, the hurt of knowing that all along, Ana was alive, and did not see fit to tell her, either because her _orders_ and her _duty_ mattered more, or, worse, because she did not believe it would hurt Fareeha, losing her.  It did, of course it did.  Ana is her mother, and she will never stop loving her, no matter how painful it becomes.

Therefore, she _needs_ to have this conversation, needs to let her mother know what it is she feels, how much Ana means to her, at least try to mend things lest she miss her chance, again, and more permanently.  If she does not, and the worst happens, she will never forgive herself, and will stay mired in regret, as she has been for the past half a decade.  That is no way to live. 

It will be better for her mother, too, this she tells herself and this she knows to be true.  The regret cannot have been any easier for Ana, who had to accept that she might never see her daughter again, might live out the rest of her life never having the opportunity to make contact, and to find some sort of closure.  Fareeha cannot speak for her mother, cannot know for certain, but she rather suspects that her mother did not want this any more than she did, which is why she has to do this, has to take the first step for both of them.

As the child, it should not be her who must act responsible, ought not to be her who makes this first step.  Yet it will be, she knows.  If it is to be anyone, it must be her, and she has never shied away from doing what she must.

How she will do it, she does not know.  But she will, she will, she just has to—

“Fareeha?”  Her mother is home, and for a moment, Fareeha is relieved, so much so that she sees herself sag, a little, in her bathroom mirror, watches some of the tension in her shoulders release because it is fine, all is well, her mother is here and alive, after all, is not gone.  But then her mother calls out again, far more worry in her voice, “Fareeha?  Where are you?  Are you—”

“I’m in here, Mum!” she calls from the restroom, steps out, moves towards the common area.

Her mother rushes towards her, meets her in the doorway to her bedroom, puts her hands on either of Fareeha’s cheeks.  “There you are,” says she, and then, grip tightening in a way Fareeha knows is not conscious, but is a bit painful against her face nonetheless, “You worried me.  I saw breakfast half-cooked and I thought—”

What her mother thought, she need not say, and she leaves the sentence there.  Fareeha understands that worry all too well, and knows that she cannot have made the situation better, with how she looked when her mother entered the condo for the first time, found her asleep after having been ill—she must have looked terrible, sick or worse.  But she is okay, now, is better than she was then, when she thought that Ana had abandoned her again.   “I’m fine, Mum,” says she, and she is, now that Ana is here, “I just cut my finger, that’s all,” and she takes a half step back to give herself space, into her bedroom, her mother left in the doorway, holds up her hand to demonstrate.

“It must have been some cut,” her mother tells her, “The eggs are cold, Fareeha.”

“It _was_ bleeding a lot, actually,” says she, not appreciating the implication that she is not being entirely honest, even if she did omit _why_ she cut her finger, the way she has been feeling, of late.

Her mother believes her, or maybe just backs down, reaches out, but stops her hand just before grabbing Fareeha’s wrist, as if remembering, suddenly, that Fareeha is a person of her own, with boundaries, whom she cannot just grab when she pleases, “Maybe I should look at it,” says she, “Just to make sure you don’t need stitches.”

“I don’t,” Fareeha insists, but recognizes that her mother is just trying to help, and since she was nice enough to ask, in her own roundabout way, to give Fareeha the chance to refuse, Fareeha acquiesces, if only to encourage her mother asking again next time in the future, “But if you insist then fine, you can look at it.”

A step back, from her, and to the side, and her mother steps into the room, and past her, moves towards the bathroom and beckons Fareeha to follow in her wake.  She does, she _always_ follows, when her mother asks, always will, and all thoughts of conversations, of the discussions they need to have, fall to the wayside.

Where her mother leads her, she will go.  What else matters?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> most of this chapter was groundwork for part two, ngl. introducing concepts/themes/conflicts. hopefully u liked it anyway
> 
> think im going on a quick hiatus after ch11 or ch12 (so a couple wks) after finishing part one. im going on vacation next wk & lifes been really busy etc etc. good news is that will be at a narratively appropriate point. just a heads up!
> 
> as always, lmk ur thoughts! & i hope ur wk is going great


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me every friday morning: oh right i have to update fic today  
> me literally 13 hours later: OH FUCK
> 
> whats the point of pre-writing 🤦♀️ i just forget anyway

Despite the best of intentions, Fareeha does not manage to have a serious conversation with her mother before she has to leave the condo, again.  She says that they need to talk, and at first Ana seems receptive, but as soon as it becomes apparent that this conversation is going to be about the two of them, and not saving the world, Ana balks, tells her that they can do this later, when they are not risking another Crisis by dilly dallying.  Never mind the fact that her mother was going to try and stitch up her finger, just a few minutes before, or that she has been the one less concerned about the pressure of time for the entirety of this trip.  What she says, goes.

That is the way it has always been, how it was growing up and how it was expected to be, thereafter, would have been had Fareeha not wanted the one future her mother forbid her.  Ana knows best, always.  So she claims.  And Fareeha?  Although she may know that is not true, that she knows herself better than her mother ever shall, her own mind and her own wants, it does not matter, because she has trouble standing up to her mother, she finds.

A few years ago, it was so easy to do, so easy to stand her ground and to say _No_ , _this is who I am, and you cannot change that._ Now, having lost Ana once, Fareeha finds it far harder to take a hard stance, wants to compromise, for fear of somehow alienating her mother again, before all of this is over.

That should not be so, yet it is.

And if she, or anyone, gives Ana an inch, she will take a mile, as the saying goes.  Even the slightest hesitance is easily used to compel her to do as her mother says.  Not intentionally, not always, but Ana has been in command for so long that it seems she does not always remember that it is not for her to decide everyone’s future, that she does not always know best.

Making the whole situation more difficult is the fact that, of course, when it comes to theft, and to espionage, to all of the black ops activity they are engaging in, Ana _does_ know best.  Despite being competent and obedient enough for black ops, Fareeha lacked the temperament for such things, does not like to do that sort of shadowy work, and therefore has made herself as unfamiliar with it as possible. 

Already, she knows more than enough about the power of the few to brutalize the many.  She never felt the need to involve herself in such activities. 

But her mother has ordered kidnappings, and assassinations, has accepted that some people must die so that the many might live, and she is far more knowledgeable about whatever it was that is containing Anubis and the other God Programs.  In this, she _is_ more prepared than Fareeha.  And Fareeha knows this, and although she may not approve of the things her mother has done, may be reevaluating her relationship because of it, she can recognize that at least here, Ana is worth heeding, even if she thinks that they really, _really_ need to talk.

Her mother knows best.

Yet she remembers what Angela asked her, the first day they spoke: _How well did you really know your mother?_

And she questions, she doubts.

Is her mother keeping her in the dark deliberately?  It is safer, of course, for fewer people to know how the God Programs are contained, but since Fareeha already knows, now, that there is an additional secret to the matter, why not tell her?  She is already dealing with the fallout, already is going to be working with technology that may reveal the answer anyway.  What good is keeping it a secret any longer?  Surely that only makes them more vulnerable, more susceptible to miscommunications or being caught by Angela, in some way, because Fareeha does not know the things she ought, and cannot explain her evolving knowledge of the situation other than to admit that someone is informing her, answering her questions. 

What good, other than to ensure that Fareeha depends on her, entirely?

But, no, that does not sound right, it does not.  Her mother does not like people who cannot think for themselves, even as she disapproved of Fareeha’s own rebellion.  A good soldier should follow orders, yes, but one who can _only_ do so is a liability all their own, in the field, and she knows this.  You have to tell your troops something, when you send them in, because otherwise, the slightest deviation from the pan guarantees that whatever one’s true objectives are will not be achieved.  Her mother would not want her to be entirely clueless, would not risk their mission, in that way, if nothing else.

Yet it sticks in her mind, that thought. 

For her mother to not tell her, it just does not make sense, to Fareeha.  Secrecy is important, of course, but already Fareeha knows far too much and, more importantly, with Liao dead, and her mother one of the few, if only, people left who understand how to stop the next Omnic Crisis, how to contain the God Programs.  What would happen, if she were to die?  What would it mean for their world?

Her mother would not risk that simply to control Fareeha.

As much as Fareeha loves her mother—and she does, she _does_ —she knows that her needs, and their relationship, have never come before the fate of the rest of the world.  Such has been the case since she was a child.  It was hard to accept, when she was very young, but by the time she was nine, or ten, she had come to know, and to understand, that her mother considered it far more important to save others than to do anything else, including going to her daughter’s birthday party, if there were a sufficiently large emergency.

As a child, it was painful, but she grew proud of Ana, for this, came to understand that her mother was not being cold towards her, but instead very unselfish, working towards a world where Fareeha and her friends could _live_ to have the birthday parties she missed.  Her father told her this, as did her teachers, and the media, and she internalized it perhaps too well, because by the time she was eighteen, all she wanted was to do the same herself, to show her mother that she understood, and was proud of her, by doing the same thing, because she believed it, believes still, that there was no better thing her mother could have done. 

That being the case, it only made sense to do the same herself.  If she had not, how could she have looked herself in the mirror, knowing that others were suffering, and she knew how best to fix it, knew what she could be doing.

So she has found herself here.

But, more importantly, because her own beliefs, her own morality, have been so shaped by her mothers, she can say with great certainty that her mother would not risk the world either to protect her or to keep her under control.

Surely, by now, her mother must know better than to try and control her, anyway, to stop her from doing what she thinks is best.  They are too alike, the two of them, too stubborn.  To do so would only end in another fight and she thinks, she _hopes,_ that her mother does not want that.  Such is the only reasonable explanation for the fact that suddenly, her mother has learned to apologize to her.

But it does not explain why her mother is hiding something, why she will not say what the device measures, specifically, and what truly contains the God Programs. 

What could?

That, she does not know. 

Either she is missing something crucial, or there is a flaw, somewhere in her reasoning.  Perhaps both.

In her head, she tries to go back over her thoughts again, tries to retrace them, to find what it is she missed the first time, what flawed assumption she made, but she cannot find it, not for herself.  Maybe, if she could talk this over with someone else—but she cannot do so.

Ana is dead.  She is dead to the world and she cannot cause any problems for anyone anymore.  Only Fareeha is haunted by her, the specter of the woman she once was, the less than entirely alive thing she has become.  No one else believes in ghosts, not any longer.

So Fareeha is alone with this, with the terrible knowledge that there is not always peace in death.  Not for her mother, and not for her.

Here, she thinks she begins to understand why it was that her mother did not inform her that she was still alive.  This _is_ more complicated than her mother having been dead, if not more painful.  To have believed that her mother perished in the field would make her life today so much simpler, and so much less frustrating, far less complicated by ethical dilemmas and the difficulty of ever understanding herself, her identity, in the context of how she and her mother’s purposes are intertwined. 

But that was never Ana’s choice to make, and understanding why she may have done so does not mean Fareeha forgives her. 

After all, a part of why this is so frustrating is the way in which her mother’s ‘death’ changed how Fareeha perceived their relationship, the regrets it left her with, and the impetus to correct them, before her mother dies again, this time permanently.  If her mother had only told her, this would still be frustrating, the inability to talk to others, but she would not be forced to consider that her mother is perfectly willing, and able, to deceive her when necessary.  An apology does not negate the fact that it was done, that it hurt Fareeha, that her mother did not think through the consequences this would have for them, or care enough about how it would impact Fareeha to reconsider.  Regretting the impact of a behavior is not the same as a commitment to changing it.

Therefore, it must be considered that, for whatever reason, her mother is deceiving her.  Had she never faked her own death, then Angela’s words, _How well did you know your mother, really?_ might not be echoing through her mind right now, but the answer is—she did not.  She must not have.

Ana would never have left Overwatch, not the Ana Fareeha knew.  She would never have kidnapped anyone, would never risk a mission by keeping Fareeha so in the dark she does not know what their true objectives even are.  She would never have faked her own death, and not thought once of how it would affect her daughter, to do so, only to drop back into her life like nothing happened.

Maybe Angela is right.  Maybe Fareeha never really knew Ana at all.

And there it is—the flaw.

She still thinks of her mother as being like her, still thinks she knows what decisions her mother would make, morally, because she has modelled herself, her own values, after Ana.  But the Ana she knew was never the real Ana, after all, and so those morals are hers, and hers alone.

In some ways, it is a relief, to realize that.  Maybe she should not worry so about becoming her mother, need not think about what Ana’s mistakes mean for her.  Perhaps they mean nothing.  Fareeha is not doomed to repeat Ana’s errors because she is not her mother, never has been. 

Yet in other ways it is another burden, something else to weigh heavily on her mind.  She mourned her mother, did everything right, insofar as she could with no body to wash, to bury.  Sadaqah by a child in the name of their parent counts towards the deceased’s soul, so she knows, and so she did her best, time and again, to bring justice in her mother’s name, as her mother would have done, true to the root of the word, if not its common meaning, _charity._ For Ana, Overwatch should have served as a continuing legacy, and that Fareeha could not protect, but she did her best to carry on her mother’s legacy, her good deeds, to ensure that her place in the world beyond this would be secure, and that her soul would know peace.  Despite Fareeha’s claims that she is ambivalent towards religion, at best, it seemed so very important to her, after Ana’s ‘death’, that she behave according to the traditions of their religion, because  even if she is not certain that such is right, and true, she knows that her mother would have wanted that, were she dead, and was not willing to risk her mother’s eternity on her own agnosticism.

And now?

All that time Fareeha spent doing what was right for her mother, and not taking time for herself, instead, what does it mean?  Yes, good was still done, and she should be happy—that good does not go to waste, simply because it was done for a different reason than originally believed.  The people she saved are still saved, the charity she gave is still given, the prayers she said still have meaning.  Just not for her.

But she could have rested, could have mourned could have taken time to process this for herself, or spent more time with her father, and helped him thorough his grief.  Instead, she focused on Ana’s needs, her spiritual ones, and set the living aside. 

For what?  Ana needed nothing, she was not dead.  Only the suffering felt by Fareeha, by her father, was real.

Only that, and the good done in the name of a woman who abandoned the world.

None of this is to say that Fareeha begrudges the charity—she does not—but she does wonder, for what reason did she do anything?  She sought to continue, in Ana’s death, her good deeds, and by so doing grant her a better life after death, but what if none of those deeds were, in fact, so good?  What legacy is Fareeha perpetuating, exactly?  For whom did she suffer?

It is impossible to know, impossible to say. 

Of this, she is certain: she does not regret helping others.  But the rest?  Does she regret the why of it, the how, the pain that she felt as her mother’s name passed her lips in the months thereafter?

Did she do all that for a woman who would use her?

Fareeha knows that what should matter is that the right thing was done, and she does believe that, she _does,_ but it stings to think that her mother mother would not, perhaps, have done the same, that the woman Fareeha mourned, and the woman who lives still, are people so vastly different from one another that perhaps nothing Ana did was Sadaqah, after all, was only for her own purposes and—

—That is taking things too far.  Surely, some of what Ana did was selfless, once, was meant only to save, to do good in the world, and not at all intended to serve herself.  Surely some of those she saved were saved with good intent.  It is just hard for Fareeha to reconcile, the thought of her mother as a believer and the thought of her as a woman who would kidnap, who would torture, who would kill save for when most necessary.  That is not their religion, that is not their way.

Not as Fareeha understands it, anyway. 

But what does she know?  Her mother was always more devout than she.

Still, it bothers her now to think that the good she did in Ana’s name may as well have been in her own, only, for it is only she who was pure of intent, after all, is only she who did the right things for the right reasons.

Maybe.

But this could all be an overreaction, could be an over-emotional response as the result of too much worry and too little sleep.  Maybe there is a perfectly good explanation for all of this.

Then, all she has to worry about is that following in her mother’s path will doom her to the sort of life Ana now leads.

Really, she cannot win.

She is almost to Angela’s clinic, now, and it occurs to her suddenly that she might ask Angela what she knows.  Angela might be biased—she was quick to believe that Ana was a traitor, and Ana has indicated that their relationship is more fractious than Ziegler admits to—but at least her perspective will be a fresh one.  At least she might know what it is like to work under Ana, if she always was this way, or if this is new.

How to ask it, she does not know.  There is no easy way to bring up her mother, never has been, even when Ana was alive.  Overwatch and her own relationship to Ana carry with them so much baggage that no conversation about them is easy, and there is no delicate way to begin this.  Yet begin she must.

By now, Angela is not taking coffee, which is no cause for concern, in and of itself, as it is later in the day than any of Fareeha’s previous visits, but Fareeha finds herself worrying, nonetheless, when she realizes that she can hear loud banging through the door of the clinic, upon approaching it.  Without thinking for too long about her own safety, or what might be happening on the other side of the door, Fareeha opens it and reaches for the firearm on her hip, only to find that all is, in fact, well.  More than, really, as it seems Angela has gotten the issue of zoning requirements resolved, and the loud banging is, in fact, merely workers.

Fareeha is glad she only _considered_ pulling the gun.  No need to shoot innocent people only doing their jobs and installing medical equipment.  No need at all, and Angela would _really_ not appreciate it, she imagines. 

One of the workers, the foreman, Fareeha assumes, from the fact that she is carrying a clipboard and wearing a different color vest from everyone else, approaches her, does not bother with the usual polite greeting Fareeha might expect from a stranger and says simply, “The clinic isn’t open yet,” in a tone that implies _obviously_ , “If it’s urgent, I can give you directions to the nearest hospital, but otherwise, it’ll be a few days.”

“I’m here to speak to Angela,” says she, “I don’t need to—”

“She’s busy,” the foreman tells her, “And you’re in the way.”

Well, fair, Fareeha _is_ in the way of anyone passing through the hall, and probably any number of people have tried to see Angela without having permission to do so, but… “She should know I was coming.  I’m, um…” what is she, exactly? “A friend.”

“A _friend_ ,” says the woman, in a tone that indicates that she thinks friend is a euphemism for something, or that she believes Fareeha to be lying, one of the two, and Fareeha is not sure which.  “I see.  She didn’t say anyone would be by, so you’ll have to call her to tell her you’re here.  Can’t let just anyone in.  Bad for business.  You understand.”  Whatever it was she thought Fareeha meant by friend, the woman is even less friendly towards Fareeha now.

Great.

Back out Fareeha goes, and into the growing heat of the morning.  She sends a message to Angela.  _im outside,_ and then, _youve hired the most unfriendly workers ive ever encountered._

No response from Angela, but the little green checkmark for _read_ appears beneath the messages.  Fareeha waits a minute, two, when the door opens and Angela steps out, pulling a large straw hat over her head.

“Sorry about the wait,” says she, “I had to explain that you really were allowed to be here.”

“Any particular reason she hates me?”  Other than the obvious, the Overwatch jacket and the tattoo signaling that she is an Amari.  “She didn’t even consider calling you down when I said we knew each other.”

“Well I _did_ tell her not to let anyone on the premises,” Angela says, “Can’t be too careful, these days, and if I have to leave the door unlocked for construction the very least I can do is impress upon everyone that no strangers are allowed in.”

Fareeha senses that there is more to this story, “That can’t be all.”

“Well,” Angela turns a bit red in the face, then, “She did catch a, ah, _friend_ of mine leaving, this morning.  Didn’t seem too pleased by that.  Not that either of us were particularly happy that she arrived so early, either.”

Oh.  Of course.  Now it is Fareeha’s turn to blush.  If the woman thought that—if she thought what Fareeha is thinking she thought, then the reaction perhaps makes sense, even if Fareeha does not agree with it.  Despite the fact that it is legal, now, for two women to marry one another, it is a recent development, and this sentiment is one that Fareeha encounters often, being herself a lesbian.

Not that Angela is gay, necessarily.  She did not specify the gender of her friend, and she and Fareeha are speaking in English, currently, where it is impossible to know.  It could be that the woman assumed such simply because she and Fareeha both used the word friend, and Angela’s paramour might have been a man.

Fareeha hopes not.  Not because she is interested in Angela, of course, they have a _business_ arrangement.  It is just easier, to be around people she knows are gay also.  That is all.  Is easier to feel safe and to know that she is accepted, as she is.

“I suppose now is a bad time to say that I said she ought to let me up because I was a friend?”  If Angela _is_ gay, and this is going to cause problems for her, Fareeha owes it to her to let her know.

Rather than being concerned, however, Angela laughs, “Two lovers in one morning!  I didn’t know I had it in me.”

For a moment, Fareeha considers making a joke about _sexual healing,_ before realizing that the only reason she knows that reference is that her father likes old music, and the chance of Angela understanding the joke is slim to none.  Instead, she steers them back to the topic of business.  “I brought, um, the _thing_ you needed,” best not to be too specific, given that there are other people nearby.  “It took a little longer than expected, but…”

“Excellent!” Angela is still in very good spirits, after Fareeha’s moment of embarrassment.  “I’ll just go upstairs and grab the necessary tools and we can go, yes?”

“What?” asks she, “Go?”   Where?  They never discussed this.

“To your place?” Angela seems as confused as she feels.  “We can’t very well work here.  Eyes and ears everywhere.” 

“That might not be the best idea.”  An understatement.  _Ana_ is at Fareeha’s condo, and if Angela sees her, Fareeha cannot imagine that things will end well, for anyone involved.

“Why?” Angela asks, “Got a _friend_ of your own?”

A bit too forcefully, Fareeha replies “No!” and then, realizing how that objection sounds, adds, “I mean, it wouldn’t be a bad thing if I did, but I don’t at the moment.  It’s just that I haven’t cleaned in a bit.”

“Is that all?” Angela still seems amused, “I don’t have enough things left to be cluttered, but I don’t think I mind if things are a bit dirty.”

For the life of her, Fareeha cannot tell if that is meant to be a double entendre, and she is not sure how to respond, therefore.  “Right,” says she, “Well, um…”

“I’ll just go upstairs and grab my things, yes?” and Angela is off before Fareeha has time to think of another objection. 

_Fuck._

Quickly, she messages her mother, warns her that she needs to make the place look cluttered, and then to _hide,_ quickly as possible.  Fortunately, her mother does not ask her any questions, seems to understand that the matter is urgent, only sends a confirmation and then nothing more.  Thank goodness she is home, and that her comm was nearby, otherwise this might have been a disaster.  Fareeha has no idea how she might have stalled upon arriving to the apartment and trying to be loud enough to convince her mother to leave.

In fact, Fareeha does not have time to think about that, for Angela is back outside with a  bag in hand entirely too quickly.

One moment, too, in which she stares up at Fareeha expectantly, and Fareeha is just about to ask _what_ when she says, “Which way?”

Ah, of course.  Unlike Angela, Fareeha’s residence is hardly public knowledge.  “This way,” says she, pointing north, further into the city.

“Lead the way,” Angela says, falling into step next to her. 

There is silence for a minute, two, until they pass by the same old building Fareeha noticed the other morning, and Angela smiles and waves at the security guard on duty, greets him as if they were friends.  “I take it,” Fareeha says, “You’re settling in well?”

“I suppose so.  I’d been here before, of course, but—things are a bit different from what I expected,” her tone as she says this is carefully neutral, in a way that makes Fareeha think she has something negative to say but is biting her tongue, due to the company. 

“How so?”  Prying is, of course, rude, but given that Angela has drawn a gun on her, Fareeha thinks they are past the point of measured politeness. 

“I knew I wouldn’t fit in, quite,” Angela says, “And that makes sense, as it isn’t _my_ home.  But everyone is so _polite_ that it’s hard to—I can’t tell who I’m friends with, and who just says hello because it’s expected of everyone.”

This amuses Fareeha, slightly.  Used to cultural conventions as she is, she knows _exactly_ when people are being rude to her.  “Are people not polite, where you’re from?” 

For a moment, Angela seems to mull over that, and then settles on, “I wouldn’t say they’re rude but—I don’t know.  I lived on base for so long that I don’t really know how the real world works, anymore.   And even then, it’s hard to say how much of the way I was treated was because of my reputation, and role as a doctor, and not because that was the way things were.  There and here, I feel like people more know _about_ me than know me.”

This, Fareeha understands, although the reputation she grapples with is her mother’s, and not her own.  “Maybe it’s not helpful,” Fareeha says, “But I get the same thing.  Everyone has an opinion based on who Mum is.  _Was_ ,” she corrects. 

“I’m sorry,” Angela sounds genuinely so, as she says it, not sorry to have made the conversation awkward but genuinely sorry to have put Fareeha in a position to bring that up.

“It’s alright,” Fareeha says, and it _is_ , and not only because her mother is not actually dead, after all.  She appreciates that unlike so many other people in her life, lately, Angela is making no attempt to tiptoe around her, to say the right things at the right times.  At another time, to another person, it might come across as thoughtless, but right now, it is so very refreshing.  “And, anyway, you’re right.  There’s a strong sense of community and belonging here, but if you don’t fit…”

There is no right way to be Egyptian, Fareeha knows.  She is as much of this land as anyone else, is not _only_ half, not too gay or too irreligious.  She belongs here, she does.

But, sometimes, it is hard to feel that way.  There are things she has done which are too far outside of the norm for her to feel like she fully fits in with mainstream culture here and that is something she is making peace with, slowly.  It is not easy, will never be easy, but with time, she hopes…

If she stays, she will rectify this, will work to find her place, to prove that she is not some Canadian transplant, but as Egyptian as anyone else, and that she belongs here, she does, even if she does not fit the traditional conception of what a young Egyptian woman _should_ be.  Undoubtedly it will not be easy, but she feels she has to do it, for herself.

“It’s a good thing I’m not concerned about fitting in, then,” Angela tells her, interrupting her train of thought.

“No?”

“No,” says Angela.  “Not that there’s anything wrong with the way things are,” Fareeha thinks she could name a few things, actually, “But I know that I’ll never be _from_ here.  If I tried to conform to some stereotype I think that’d be rather insulting, actually.”

Now that, Fareeha can agree with, but, “Where’s the line between not doing that and not trying at all?”

“Conversion, I should think.”

“We aren’t all Muslim, you know,” Fareeha knows being Coptic is not quite the same as the Christianity practiced by Europeans, but still.  It is _theoretically_ the same religion.  “There are still churches here.”

“Yes,” Angela says, “But I’m _Jewish_.”

 Oh.  Well, Fareeha does not, admittedly, think she knows of any synagogues in the area.  “I guess you have a point.”

After that, the subject quickly changes, and the rest of their walk is spent discussing where best to go for late night takeout, and whether or not they believe that mechanical replicas of extinct species, such as the camels here, are going to catch on elsewhere.  (Both of them hope not.)

By the time they arrive at Fareeha’s door, the awkwardness is almost forgotten, but Fareeha’s fear that her mother will not have hidden yet is not, so she says, “Wait here for just a second,” outside the door, and Angela lets out a rather dubious _okay_ in response.

Fortunately, her mother is not visible.  Unfortunately, it seems she took the order to make the place look messy _very_ seriously, and Fareeha internally groans at the sheer amount of work she has to look forwards to.  Clothes are everywhere.  Food has been smeared on once clean dishes, which now find themselves piled on the counter.  She is fairly certain that one of her books has made its way on top of the ceiling fan.  How her mother accomplished so much chaos in so little time is utterly beyond her.

“Um,” says she, “It’s worse than I thought.  You might want to… just don’t say I didn’t warn you, okay?”

“I’m sure it can’t be— _Gott_ are you sure you weren’t robbed?”

Fareeha almost wishes she were, rather than suffering the consequences of her own not-so-convenient lie.  “No it’s just uh, been rough since my mom died,” says she, and that is _not_ a lie, even if the current state of the room is in fact the result of her mother being very much alive.  “Things just haven’t seemed as important.”

“I don’t mean to overstep,” Angela says, moving past Fareeha and towards the cleanest patch of the dining table to set down her things, “But if you haven’t looked into it already, you may want to consider seeing a doctor.”

“For?”  Being messy is hardly a disease.

“I’m not exactly the right kind of professional,” Angela says, “And not _really_ one to talk, given my own experiences, but… I don’t think this is a healthy level of grief, Fareeha.”

Oh, thinks Fareeha, _great._   This again.  She is _fine_ , she is, it is the rest of the world that is coping too well with what has happened to Overwatch and her mother and so many others in the past months.  And, in fact, her apartment was perfectly neat up until recently.  She is _fine,_ she is, only needs a bit of time to adjust to the new normal, and is particularly going to be well now that she knows that Ana is alive. 

But she cannot tell Angela this, cannot tell her any of it, does not want to lecture her about Overwatch falling or tell the truth about her mother.  So instead she lies, again, digs herself deeper.  “It’s just been hard, you know.  Like you said the other day, my mother and I didn’t exactly get along well when she was alive so finding out that—that she had this whole place, still, all my baby stuff where it was when we lived here, not a thing packed up, like we never left.  It’s been weird.  And hard.  Because I thought—I really thought she didn’t love me anymore.  And I’m sure she thought the same of me and—and now I know that isn’t true, but she’s dead, so it’s not like I can _tell_ her and—”

A hand, on her cheek, and Fareeha jerks back, just barely avoids lashing out in response when she realizes that it is only Angela, after all, is only the doctor bringing her back to herself and to the present.

“Sorry,” says Angela, observing her reaction.

“No,” says Fareeha, “ _I’m_ sorry,” she should not be using her grief like this, or others’ expectations of it, not be manipulating the way that she is expected to respond and the experiences Angela herself has had.  Yet she did not lie, in that whole speech, said only what it was she wishes she could say to her mother.  “We have work to do, don’t we?”

“Oh,” says Angela, seeming almost sad, to be reminded of it, taking a too-quick step back from Fareeha, at that, “I suppose we do.”

“Saving the world can’t wait!” Fareeha is too cheery as she says this.

“No,” Angela says wryly, “No, it can’t.  But there’s always someone to save and I hope that…” a pause, and then, “When this emergency, at least, is resolved, I hope that you remember that your own health is important, too.”

Rich, Fareeha thinks, coming from Angela.  She does not know the specifics of what happened at the old HQ, who was there when the explosion occurred, but she knows Angela was there in the aftermath, and when straight from that to an earthquake zone, and then to testify before the UN, and now here.  When has she taken time for herself?

But that seems too much to say, too intimate an observation for a near-stranger to make.

Instead, says she, “I guess I could stand to take more time for myself.”  And does not say that she is in fact thinking of leaving the country entirely, when she speaks of that, is maybe going to run away with her mother, leave everything, all the grief and the pain and the expectations behind.

As if it were that simple.  As if by running she could sever her ties to her past.  No, running does not seem to have healed her mother.  So why would it work for her?

But she wants to.  The ache to do so, to pretend that the pain of not quite fitting in here, of watching Overwatch collapse, of the past conflict with her mother, never existed, or cannot find her, it is strong, pulls her like nothing else ever has. 

Wanting does not make it so.  She knows this.  But what a beautiful fantasy it is, her mother and she, alone together against the world, no past to haunt them anymore.  A world where they have time, and space, to grow and to heal and to do the work, together, that Fareeha always wanted to do, to bring justice and peace to the people around them, to restore the communities ravaged by the Omnic Crisis and to protect the world from another such incident.

It will never happen, could never happen, but if it did, how lovely it would be.

Instead, Fareeha has this, doing her best to tidy up her living space whilst Angela sets to work repairing the device on her kitchen table.  As she works, the two of them talk idly, again, about what they think the future is going to look like, without Overwatch, whether or not someone will rise to take its place in the world, or if the hole in the world’s hierarchy will go unfilled.  In all things, Angela is somewhat more pessimistic than she, but never to a degree that Fareeha feels is negative for negativity’s sake. 

If anything, it would make sense for Angela to be _more_ pessimistic than she is.  From what Fareeha knows of her life, it has not been easy, and what became of Overwatch was just another blow in a series of tragedies Angela has endured.  It strikes Fareeha then, how truly lucky she herself is.  Neither of her parents died in the Omnic Crisis, despite the fact that her mother was on the front lines for the entirety of the war, and even afterwards, when Ana ‘died’, it was not a true death, and she has found her way back to Fareeha, now, their little family nearly complete once again.

Yet, she cannot find herself grateful, not really.  Even as she feels she should be, she thinks at least Angela’s loss is simpler.  That is selfish, she knows.  It is not right, to envy another’s loss, particularly when she still has a mother in her life, but she feels that way, nonetheless, and is disgusted with herself for the that fact.  Were she a better woman, she would not feel this.

But she is not.  She is only who she is, will never be anything better than the woman she is right now.  Yes, she can improve her actions, and yes, she can do things with better intent, but the thought she has now—it is something she has thought for years, that it would have been easier to have had nearly any other mother.  No amount of time or self-flagellation will make that go away.  Having Ana as a mother has never been easy, never will be.

But is easy good?

Yes, a part of Fareeha thinks, because then at least se would not doubt herself so, would not always be stuck going in circles like this.  Then she would know right from wrong, could be so easily confident in herself as she is in her work, could experience that sort of steadiness of self that others seem to have.  But at what cost?  Her mother died, and that was meant to be simple, and was she really any happier then than she is now?

No, for she still somehow was between worlds, was stuck having never been a part of Overwatch, but still carrying a heavier burden from its destruction than anyone else.  Overwatch was her mother’s Sadaqah, and to see it destroyed destroyed her, too.  Things are never easy, in Fareeha’s life.  Perhaps it is time she accepted that, rather than wishing for something better.  There is nothing better, not anymore.  Not for her.

Contentment with one’s lot was always the thing Fareeha found most difficult about religion.  To be content means to accept many things, injustices among them.  And maybe Fareeha could come to accept those things for herself, eventually, but for others?  No, never.

But at least, for all the pain her mother has caused, she has given Fareeha a purpose, of a sort, has given her something concrete that she can _do_ about the state of the world, some quantifiable way in which she can contribute, not simply preventing things, as she has been doing with Helix, but actively acting to fix something, to better the world, rather than simply stopping it from growing worse.  At least her pain has given her some semblance of an identity, a clue as to who she is, at least she can use it, can—

Angela makes some joke about potential names for Overwatch replacements, and Fareeha finds herself forgetting that train of thought entirely, brought back to the present, which is admittedly far more pleasant than she makes it out to be, when she gets lost in her own head, and she thinks—she could be happy.

Maybe she is not yet, but like this, just relaxing with another person, someone who has been through many of the same things as her, one who understands her, insofar as anyone can, maybe she could be happy.  All that is left is to find those people with whom she has something in common.  Not Overwatch, maybe, because with her mother back that is all too complicated, but other gay Arabs, maybe, or others raised in diaspora who decided to return.  Maybe she does not have to run, to leave with her mother, to find peace, to find happiness, maybe what she really needs is to stay, to allow herself time to grow into this place, finally, to try and accept what it would be like to be _here_ , and not just as a stepping stone to somewhere else.

So time passes, and for the most part, it passes well.  Before long, Angela has nearly the whole device taken apart, again, and has been replacing parts, one by one, as she needs to.  There is a lull, as she concentrates, and the next time she speaks, it is with a good deal more seriousness.  “Earlier,” says she, “When I mentioned having a _friend_ , your reaction was…” she trails off, seems to rethink how she is going to say this, what she ought to say, “I mean—and you’ll forgive me if this is too intrusive—but did you… are you—”

A crash, from Fareeha’s bedroom, and a loud one, at that.

“Shit!” says Angela, “What _was_ that?  Are we—”

“Shh,” Fareeha brings one finger up to her lips, and hopes that her composure seems normal, when in fact she is less panicked because she knows the source of the noise, she is relatively certain.  “I’ll check,” she murmurs, bringing her face so near to Angela’s ear that she is certain no one else could hear her, even if they tried, “But I’m pretty certain it’s nothing to worry about.”

“Nothing to worry about?” Angela demands, hissing right back into Fareeha’s own ear, “There is _something_ in your bedroom!”

Some _thing_ , Fareeha thinks, yes, and that works, that fits, suddenly she has a lie she can tell that will work just fine, will stop anymore questions, at least for the time being.  “Yes,” says she, “My cat.  She’s very sweet but also very clumsy.”

“Oh,” Angela perks up, and then, at a normal volume, “You have a cat?  Can I see—”

“Shh!” Fareeha cuts her off again, and remembers Angela’s comment from a few days previous that she never went on a stealth mission she did not fail, finds it rather less surprising than she did before.  “It _could_ be my cat.  Let me check before you say anything else.”

Angela nods, silently, but still looks very hopeful, very expectant.  _Great_ , thinks Fareeha, she _had_ to be a cat person.

Carefully, she eases open her door, slides inside, closes it before Angela can see in, and turns to speak to her mother.  “What are you _doing_ ,” demands she, all the while speaking quietly in the sort of cooing tone she would use to soothe a cat, so that if Angela tries to eavesdrop through the walls the sounds she hears will be the right ones.  “She heard you!”

“What did you tell her?” Ana asks, not at all interested in answering Fareeha’s question, although it seems as if there is an answer to that, already—a box has fallen off of Fareeha’s top shelf, and Ana is holding the other box of her own things in her hands.  Clearly, she was too short to take it down unassisted.

“That I had a cat who might’ve knocked something over.”

“I’m a cat now, am I?”  This seems to please her mother very much.

“Yes, and cats can’t talk, so _be quiet_ , would you?”  This is, Fareeha thinks, going to give her a stress headache.  As a matter of fact, she can already feel one forming behind her eyes.

“I’ll head out for a bit,” her mother says. 

“Good,” Fareeha says, “Do.”

Somehow, despite not being able to reach the shelf without knocking anything over, her mother climbs gracefully out of the high window and into the afternoon sun.  _Ugh_ , thinks Fareeha, and nothing more, before she returns again to her living room, and to Angela.

“Everything okay?” Angela asks her.

“Yeah, it was just the cat.  Making a mess as always.”  About her mother, that is an understatement.

“I see,” says Angela, and then, perking up a bit, “Can I meet them?”

“No,” Fareeha says, less hurried, this time—a better lie, “No, they’re… shy.”  She does not like how easy this is becoming for her.

“Ah,” Angela says, sounding a bit disappointed, “Well, I suppose we should get back to work, then…”

“Probably,” Fareeha says, “But I’ve got most of my dishes clean, now.  Want to break for lunch?”  She feels bad, having gotten Angela’s hopes up over literally nothing, and it is past time to eat, by now.  Cooking a meal for them is the least she can do.

“What would we be eating?”

“Uh,” Fareeha says, “I don’t actually have much in the way of _food_ right now.  I can pick up fuul from a street vendor, heat up leftover harira, or there’s uh… chicken salad for sandwiches?”

At the mention of the sandwiches, Angela wrinkles her nose, “I’ll have the harira, if it’s not too much trouble.”

It is not, and lunch passes by remarkably quickly, the two of them chattering amicably about food—specifically, foods from home that the both of them miss.  Although Western, particularly North American, culture has had a great deal of impact on Egyptian society, food is one of the arenas that has been most resistant to change.  For the most part, Fareeha would consider that a good thing, but sometimes she wants funyons, damn it, and knows that although she _could_ order them online, the environmental impact of shipping such foods overseas is not worthwhile.  Angela is not particularly sympathetic to this plight, seeming rather appalled by the concept of eating something nearly entirely artificial, but does mention the ways in which food in Switzerland differs from the usual fare here, and goes into detail about the tastes she misses most.  Chocolate based desserts are sweet in a different sort of way from honeyed ones.

Like this, they get along well, even when they disagree, naturally fall into a conversational rhythm which seems to suit the both of them, and, now that they are talking about something not nearly so sensitive as the subject of their work together, or Overwatch, or the world post-Crisis, they are able to enjoy speaking to one another, without the worry that they will cause offense, or hurt, are able to actually relax.  It is… nice.  Too nice.  Fareeha thinks, if it were not for the circumstances, she could get used to this.

But she cannot.  This is temporary, an alliance of convenience.  Soon, one or both of them will be on their way to another part of the world, will be off doing something else.  Such is the way of the world, this Fareeha knows.  And even if they did both stay, she knows how Angela feels about soldiers—about people like her.  It is all well and good for them to be allied, right now, to work together, when the danger posed to the world is immediate, but she knows what Angela said, in her testimony to the UN, does not doubt that their relationship would collapse quickly, without an external threat to unify them.

Maybe she is just lonely.  She likes her coworkers well enough, but it is difficult, to be honest with them, is difficult to allow herself to open up.  Such is a constraint of the job; all of them are ex-military, and they were chosen because they are strong, because they are stalwart, because they are stable.  There is little room for emotion, or personal connection, outside of surface level camaraderie, and Fareeha always, _always_ worries about showing too much of herself, worries that if she is too nervous, or too funny, or too much any one thing, that they will find fault with her, that they will say her mother was not so, and if she were a better soldier she would not be either.

She really, _really_ needs to meet people outside of work.

Not that that helps, much of the time.  Famous as her mother was, and strong as the resemblance is, particularly following her decision to get a tattoo like her Ana’s, people recognize Fareeha as an Amari immediately, and pre-judge her for it.  Either they hated Overwatch, and therefore dislike her, too, or they idolized Ana, and nothing Fareeha does will ever measure up to a dead woman, a hero, a _martyr._

Her mother would have hated that—probably does hate it, Fareeha corrects, present tense.  Martyrdom was never Ana’s intention, no matter what their religion has to say about the matter, and that is a loaded concept unto itself, particularly for people who, like the two of them, have lived in the west, have had to defend themselves and their religion to strangers.  _We aren’t like_ those _people_ is a terrible thing to have to say, particularly when one knows that, in fact, most are not.  Somehow, even bothering to refute such assumptions feels like one is legitimizing them, leaves a terrible taste in Fareeha’s mouth, every time.

No, Ana Amari is not a martyr, in any sense, and would hate to be called one.  Martyrs, she thinks, are stupid.  Why die for a cause, when one could do so much more by living to continue fighting?

Fareeha is not entirely sure she agrees, thinks that there are places and times when dying may be the most important and impactful thing one can do, but she will never tell her mother this, does not know how to begin to explain her position.  Both of them are soldiers, and that should be proof enough, but, as her mother would argue, it is living soldiers that win wars.  A martyr will never force a surrender.

Well, martyr or not, Ana’s supposed death has made the task of existing as her daughter even harder, and so it is nice, to spend time with someone who actually _knew_ her mother, who knows how human she was—is—how imperfect, how flawed.  Fareeha is not held up to some impossible standard by Angela, because to her, Ana is—was?—a real person, not some impossible ideal, and so Fareeha, too, is given room to be real.

If only she could get so much grace from everyone, if only her mother had not become some symbol of their country, for her visibility and role in ending the Omnic Crisis.  Then, Fareeha’s world would be that much simpler.

But it is no use wishing for things that will never be.  Such is a waste of her time, and there are far, far better things she could be doing.  Things such as this: clearing away the table with Angela, so that her guest might continue the business of repairing and reassembling the device, such that Ana can determine what is wrong with Anubis’ containment, and all three of them can work to resolve it _before_ the world ends.

So she does, clears the plates from the table and the thoughts from her mind, focusing on the present, on finishing tidying up the mess her mother left for her—physically, if not emotionally, or metaphorically—and on planning her next steps.

Tonight, she thinks, they will likely break back into the Temple of Anubis, which means she will need to rest, if she can, before doing so, which means doing as many of her daily tasks now as possible, in order to save time later.  While Angela works on reassembling the device, battery and some other small parts replaced, Fareeha washes her laundry, and her mother’s, too, wipes down the counters, checks to make sure she has paid her bills, chattering mindlessly with Angela all the while.  It is nice, to have someone to talk to while she does all this, and Fareeha thinks that maybe, after all of this has settled, if she decides to stay in Egypt, she might convert her old nursery to a second bedroom again, and rent it out.  To not be alone these past few days has done wonders for her mood, and her health along with it.  Despite getting less sleep, she feels so much more energetic, compelled as she is to keep a schedule, to be awake for at least part of the day.

It would solve her loneliness and malaise both, and the extra income could not hurt, now that she knows that her inheritance from her mother is not truly hers to keep.

Or, she thinks she knows.  Admittedly, she and Ana have not discussed the matter just yet, have not talked about what Ana’s fugitive and decidedly _not_ dead status will mean, for Fareeha’s finances, and Ana’s ability to survive with no income.  It seems crass, to bring it up so soon, seems inappropriate to say _I’m so glad you’re alive, Mum, but what does this mean for my bank account?_   Yet it is a concern that Fareeha has, now, just one more thing made complicated by her mother’s survival. 

But she pushes the worry away, for now.  She was not counting on inheriting _anything_ from her mother, with the way things were between them at the time of Ana’s death, and she is not going to rely on here inheritance now.   It merely puts her back where she was before, in terms of her financial planning, and that is fine.  Fareeha has always been independent, been able to care for herself.  Why would that change now?

Again, conversation lapses, Fareeha caught up in her own concerns and Angela focused on the work before her, and, too quickly, time passes, midday to late afternoon, before, abruptly, Angela stands, stretches, the joints in her back cracking audibly as she does so and drawing Fareeha’s attention.

“All done?” Fareeha asks her, surprised both by how much time has gone by, and the fact that Angela is standing to so soon, when there still seem to be too many pieces on the table for everything to be in order.

“Mmm, not quite,” Angela says, turning to face Fareeha, “I’m nearly done, but I need to use your restroom, if you don’t mind.”

“Go right ahead,” Fareeha says, not sure why Angela is looking at her so expectantly.  Obviously, she is not going to stop a guest from trying to use the toilet.

A huff of a laugh from Angela, and then, “Thank you for your permission, but I don’t know where it _is_.  I’m sure you’d rather I didn’t snoop through every room in your apartment looking for it.”

Ah, thinks Fareeha, right.  It really has been too long since she had any sort of guest over, and her occasional paramours have all known where the restroom was by virtue of it being connected to the bedroom.

“Right through the bedroom, door to the left,” says she, pointing to her bedroom door without thinking.  By the time she realizes that her mother might have returned, might this very moment be _in_ said bedroom, about to be discovered, Angela is already halfway across the room.  “Wait!” says she, a bit too rushed, and then, more loudly, in case her mother is listening in, so that she knows to hide.  “The cat _really_ isn’t friendly with new people.  A rescue, you know.  So just… open the door slowly.  And give it a minute to hide.  Don’t want you getting scratched.”

“Okay?” Angela says, a bit uncertainly, drawing out the _ohh_ sound.  “I know better than to antagonize a cat.  I’ll give them space, I promise.”  And then, as she is pushing the door open, slowly, like Fareeha requested, she turns again to add, “It’s very sweet that you’re so concerned about their comfort, though.  How people treat animals says a lot about their character.”

Fareeha is not entirely certain she agrees with that assessment; she has met any number of people who cared far more about what happened to animals than their fellow man, have projected onto their pets the humanity that they themselves lack.  However, it would be rude to deny what was so obviously intended as a compliment, so she keeps her peace, and says nothing.

At least luck is on her side, this time, and her mother either overheard her not so subtle hint that she ought to hide, or has yet to return, because Angela proceeds immediately to the restroom, and does not seem to spot anything out of the ordinary, and Fareeha does not hear anything in the few seconds she lingers in the doorway, ready to act, should it be necessary, to try and deescalate any potential incidents.  Certainly, if Angela discovered Ana’s presence, things would be _loud_ in one way or another, she would yell, or Ana would, or perhaps there would only be a very loud _thump_ as Angela was hit by a dart of her own creation.  But it is quiet, and so it is safe to assume that none of those things have happened, after all.

Relieved, Fareeha wanders away from the door, makes her way to the other side of her apartment to fold the clean laundry.  For the first time today, things are going somewhat according to plan, and for a moment, she even lets her guard down, allows herself to think that the rest of the afternoon will go smoothly, that Angela will leave in perhaps half an hour, she will have time for a nap, and then she and Ana will infiltrate the Temple of Anubis again, this time without being nearly discovered, safe from the trouble of birds nearly exposing them—as, surely, Captain Khalil will have dealt with the problem by now.  He is a man of action, after all.

But things in Fareeha’s life are rarely so simple, particularly lately, and it is perhaps more than a little foolish for her to think that her string of bad luck will be broken so quickly.  Yet think it she does, hums a little to herself, as she folds her pants, tuneless and a little offkey, unconcerned with sounding nice.

In fact, she is so busy humming that she almost misses it—the sound of a toilet flushing and then, rather than the door opening back up, a soft noise of surprise, and then, an even worse sign, _words_.

Although she cannot make out what is being said, not quite, she can tell that it is Angela’s voice, that she is talking to _someone._

Normally cool under pressure, Fareeha feels her chest tighten, her heart stop.  If Angela is talking then it can only mean one thing.

Her mother, discovered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay so full disclosure im probably completely rewriting chapter 11 bc i changed something in act two so... things need to go down differently. which is fine! its all good! BUT... if that is the case... well im in la all next week visiting friends (including the lovely mariel sealfarts, and mia mimiroy who got me into ovw in the first place) and idk if ill finish it on time. bc u know. vacation! living in other ppls homes! not making my own schedule! so if thats the case... im sorry OTL ill try
> 
> some notes:  
> \- fareeha cant think of any synagogues in the area not bc shes out of touch or anything but because as of 2019 theres less than 20 jewish ppl in egypt and theyre all too old to be having more children. so like by 2076... there wont be any left. furthermore because of both the laws in egypt (which might change), the effect of diaspora on the egyptian jewish population, AND a belief among orthodox ashkenazic jews abt returning to egypt maybe being a sin (bc moses stuff) which is now spreading to non-ashkenazic populations bc israel... yeah, lets just say its not likely that the egyptian jewish population (a couple hundred thousand in the 1950s, abt 500k in diaspora now) is ever going to live in egypt again. which is sad, to me. bc egypt has had a jewish population... for a couple thousand years. thats a lot of history.  
> \- when fareeha refers to sadaqah (charity, essentially) shes talking most specifically abt the (muslim) belief that one of the only three kinds of good deeds that remain after a person dies is ongoing charity--in this case, overwatch being an ongoing part of anas legacy of heroism... until it blew up. which makes it a double loss, for her, thinking her mother was dead at the time that happened, and a further part of her died with it  
> \- if u saw the chicken salad sandwich discourse on twitter a few weeks ago... this is what sparked it  
> \- fareeha and anas discomfort w the word martyr comes w having lived in the west for a considerable period of time & having dealt w islamophobia. i dont think thatll go away by 2076, unfortunately
> 
> tl;dr: some thoughts. update next week may be late bc vacation. im still hard at work. love u all! <3 rory

**Author's Note:**

> translation notes:  
> ummi - mama, usually used by young ppl, but fareeha says it here bc shes really shocked/emotionally vulnerable  
> farah - occasional nickname for fareeha, im almost certain she uses it in canon bc that makes "pharah" a pharaoh/farah pun
> 
> im already 50k into this fic, so there should be chapter two posted next week! ive def had no problems these past 5 wks writing 1 chapter/wk so... hopefully ill keep up w things lmao
> 
> i pretty much never write au stuff lmao so comments are def appreciated


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